I know a few people will think it's frigging hilarious that through his job, Steve was offered tickets for us to see an advance screening of this movie.
Hardee har har.
I'll let you know if we go. It is rather tempting to, you know.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Dear Halloween...
Dear Halloween,
It's just a little after eight, and my little ladybug is asleep.
The cute, barely audible "Twick oah Tweet" lasted the whole two blocks, and it was rather adorable that she caused several of my...um...her Kit Kats to be melted and deformed by her clutching grasp. In fact, she carried each piece of candy to the next house in her hot little hand, only putting it in her little pumpkin after it was proved that another piece of candy would take its place.
By the end of the night, she'd learned from the big kids to just reach in people's bowls and grab candy, then amble on to the next house with a sullen "Thanks" mumbled over her shoulder.
By the second block, she could look in the screen doors and see if people were giving out bags of chips, and take a pass. When one house had Rockets to hand out, she walked past the homeowner's outstretched offering and into the hallway and took all she could grasp from the bowl. She dropped her bucket on the floor, and stood there, two fists full of candy, with nowhere to stash it. That's how they trap monkeys, you know.
And so, I guess my little girl's Halloween was magical enough. But now the first cognizant occasion of it - the "This is what I do and they do this? Wow!" is gone. Next year, more excitement and anticipation, I'm sure - but less wonder and gratitude, I'm afraid. Also, more negotiations about what gets eaten - I don't think I'll get away with "You can just have a lollipop in your bath" again.
So, Halloween, now that I'm getting the hang of this holiday-as-a-parent thing, here's what I've got to tell you:
*The people who have steep concrete stairs and sit at the bottom of them are nicer than the ones who make wobbly little kids truck up them. When the people at the bottom step have glasses of wine to offer other parents, they are the nicest of all.
*The reason treat bags are the size of an overnight piece of luggage these days is because of the damn chips. If I...I mean Josephine...wanted seven to ten small non-recyclable bags filled with crumbs...well...well...nobody wants those. Please stop it with the chips, and the Fritos and Cheetos aren't any better. I had to ask someone for a plastic bag to transfer them into, because her adorable little pumpkin got jammed with them. I got a No Frills plastic bag from a neigbhour I never talk to otherwise, which I had to pretend to be SO grateful for, which I wasn't because it wasn't really classy-looking. Then, for the rest of the night, I seemed like one of those moms who'll send her little kid out knowing that the Coffee Crisps are going right to HER hips and she'll be having Nibs for breakfast.
*Twizzlers Sourz? Vile. Fech. The only thing they're good for is feeding to Josephine and then telling her that all candy tastes this nasty in order to put her off it all for life.
*To the lady who put this on her porch? Thanks. Thanks a lot. Because I have a lot of explaining to do. I've made note of your house number, and if I hear one more question like "Why was there dolls heads in a box there?" or "Why does some people think that broken dolls is like art?", and my favourite "But the dollies are so SAD! Can't you fix them for her?", you'll be responding directly to the two big blue eyes and trembling pink lower lip beneath the fuzzy yellow hair, got it?
*While we're at it? You, with the mad scientist next door to the decapitater? Too scary for my Josie. Thank goodness I could hear you yelling "YAAAAAAAAAH!" as you opened the door to trick or treaters from over half a block away, and could steer Josie around your place. Furthermore, next year, spend less on the bubbling faux science experiments, and more on good treats. You can't have a display like that and be passing out potato chips.
And now, I'm looking out my screen door in between paragraphs. It's still early. No stragglers even. Is it because it's a school night? Am I really going to be stuck with about twenty gummy fangs and some disgusting gummy cafeteria food? Did I really go to the dollar store today to buy stickers for little kids who shouldn't be eating the crap candy I bought?
Halloween, what we have now is different. It's okay. It's still good. So, I'm not the seven-year old gypy tasting my first bit of freedom, running up driveway after driveway and hoping for mallow cups. I'm not creating some wacky costume nobody understands but me (HermAphrodite! The God AND Goddess of Love, at the same time!) and wearing it to a party that serves nectar and ambrosia and then I get to talk to someone dressed like Freddie Mercury all night. I'm not the one monitoring a scary porch with excellent treats, making kids say "Trick or Treat" and complimenting their costumes in an exaggerated syrupy voice that makes them either puff up or cringe, simply for my own amusement, becaue they WANT MY TREATS.
Now I'm the one standing at the foot of some concrete stairs, hoping the little ladybug I'm shepherding around doesn't sustain a skull fracture, a cavity, a fright we can't get through - and is polite and doesn't catch on fire from the ass who put tea-lights going up the steps.
Also, I don't think I'm ever going to see her really believe that TWICE she fooled Daddy by trick or treating at our own house again, and chortling so gleefully because of it. I'm going to miss that more than I miss my own childhood Halloweens.
So Halloween? You kind of suck, but I loved you tonight.
See ya next year,
Marla
Strictly For Your Voyeuristic Pleasure.
I don't think I need to say anything. The picture says it all.
(click to see it bigger)
(click to see it bigger)
Happy Halloween!
Is it any surprise that in our family, our pumpkins are yet another extension of ourselves? Steve plots his out, then embellishes it more once it begins to take form.
Josephine is more interested in the insides. "They are Bahyoooteefulll!" (They kind of are, in a flayed to reveal their otherworldly inner ectoplasm like a geode kind of way, aren't they?)
Mine always tells me what it wants to be.
Steve's always turns out kind of weird, but he pretends it was exactly what he'd planned.
When it came down to it, Josephine's "baby little pumpkin" was "too too special" to carve.
She tried to hold it as she fell asleep on Steve's lap, but it wasn't working. So she just held some of the sticks we used to embellish ours instead, and then she kept waking herself up as she'd drop them when nodding off. She talked about pumpkins in her sleep.
But of course, there's a Boo Boo pumpkin.
And Elvis says "Happy Halloween. Happy Halloween Very Much."
*you can click on the images if you'd like to see them larger
*I'm happy without comments, but always thrilled to get an email. You can reach me at hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com
Josephine is more interested in the insides. "They are Bahyoooteefulll!" (They kind of are, in a flayed to reveal their otherworldly inner ectoplasm like a geode kind of way, aren't they?)
Mine always tells me what it wants to be.
Steve's always turns out kind of weird, but he pretends it was exactly what he'd planned.
When it came down to it, Josephine's "baby little pumpkin" was "too too special" to carve.
She tried to hold it as she fell asleep on Steve's lap, but it wasn't working. So she just held some of the sticks we used to embellish ours instead, and then she kept waking herself up as she'd drop them when nodding off. She talked about pumpkins in her sleep.
But of course, there's a Boo Boo pumpkin.
And Elvis says "Happy Halloween. Happy Halloween Very Much."
*you can click on the images if you'd like to see them larger
*I'm happy without comments, but always thrilled to get an email. You can reach me at hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com
Monday, October 30, 2006
Oh, Really?
Dear Andrea,
I too am having a hard time capturing all that was this past weekend in words. It's been lovely reading all the posts about the conference, and seeing it through the eyes of others while composing my own thoughts.
But, when you mentioned Boo Boo specifically, well, I had to step in and refute your contention that he's not the stinker I make him out to be.
I'll start by letting you know that I THOUGHT I checked him carefully before you guys came for any stray particles of litter that might be clinging to his little bunghole. And while he "presented" his crinkle for our viewing pleasure often enough for it to be remarked on before we left for the conference on Friday, I don't think my eyes traveled upward from it quite far enough.
I'm also now pretty sure I owe you an apology. Let me explain - I don't know exactly when it happened, but when I came home on Saturday, jauntily swinging my new bag and thinking happy thoughts, I petted him on the way in the door. As I ran my hand over his head, stroked down his back and then let his tail rise up against my palm, I felt it. Then I saw it.
A chunk of poo, quite dry - its texture indicative of some tenure - was matted about halfway up his tail on the underside. It had gone quite powdery even. So don't think it happened between the hours of 9:30 and 2:30 on Saturday, which would have given me, and now you, some relief.
It was probaby there all the time he was making nice with you. I'm sorry about that. But, well, I did kind of warn you.
And wow - it was really stuck! I had to use a pot scrubber to get it off, after soaking his tail in the sink for a few minutes. Yuck!
But do visit again soon!
Regards,
Marla
I too am having a hard time capturing all that was this past weekend in words. It's been lovely reading all the posts about the conference, and seeing it through the eyes of others while composing my own thoughts.
But, when you mentioned Boo Boo specifically, well, I had to step in and refute your contention that he's not the stinker I make him out to be.
I'll start by letting you know that I THOUGHT I checked him carefully before you guys came for any stray particles of litter that might be clinging to his little bunghole. And while he "presented" his crinkle for our viewing pleasure often enough for it to be remarked on before we left for the conference on Friday, I don't think my eyes traveled upward from it quite far enough.
I'm also now pretty sure I owe you an apology. Let me explain - I don't know exactly when it happened, but when I came home on Saturday, jauntily swinging my new bag and thinking happy thoughts, I petted him on the way in the door. As I ran my hand over his head, stroked down his back and then let his tail rise up against my palm, I felt it. Then I saw it.
A chunk of poo, quite dry - its texture indicative of some tenure - was matted about halfway up his tail on the underside. It had gone quite powdery even. So don't think it happened between the hours of 9:30 and 2:30 on Saturday, which would have given me, and now you, some relief.
It was probaby there all the time he was making nice with you. I'm sorry about that. But, well, I did kind of warn you.
And wow - it was really stuck! I had to use a pot scrubber to get it off, after soaking his tail in the sink for a few minutes. Yuck!
But do visit again soon!
Regards,
Marla
Sunday, October 29, 2006
It's the Wintery Holiday of Your Choice Bloggy Extravaganza Gifty Exchange Thingy Questionnaire Time Again!
Andrea, over at Beanie Baby, is hosting the Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Extravaganza Gift Exchange again this year, and despite my reluctance to participate after last year's, well, of course I changed my mind this year. Normally, I'm a person who says "Leave the party while you're still having fun!", so I thought about it, and realized - I'm still having fun. Thus, I was persuaded. Presents! Nice people! Fun! Questionnaires! Last year I helped by coming up with a questionnaire designed to reveal preferences, but in my case, it just ended up being just plain hard to answer. This year, I revised it, so it's much like last year's , and while the answers for last year still apply, I am also passionate about this year's! Cripes, I can make things hard for myself sometimes. And, of course, now for a bunch of other participants.
Last year, it really was great, and overall, successful - though there were a few minor glitches with mailings. Happily, I ended up receiving more than just awesome gifts - I found someone who is now my friend in things artsy and shopping on-line with out hearts in our wallets and I'M SO HAPPY ABOUT THAT.
For me, the pleasure of shopping was also one of the best parts. I loved finding gifty thingies for my recipient, Sarah. Since then, we've been corresponding privately, and it's such a joy to receive something from her in my inbox. That, I think, is exactly what Andrea and I hoped for -- for bloggers to just plain be nice to each other, even just once, across our differences and space and time -- and maybe to make new friends. I think the best part was that the presents are for the bloggers themselves, not for sharing - it's permission to be selfish. How often do we get that?
So, this year I am looking forward to a day of thinking about someone other than myself, and then in return, receiving a bunch of stuff from someone who's been thinking about me. How just plain nice that will be.
Here are my answers:
If I could, I'd invent a personal soundtrack device, and damn it, the world needs one because, everything sounds better in the movies, perhaps because of the swelling strings and a well-chosen eighties hit like "I Melt With You".
I sometimes buy shirts in colours other than black, which I end up not wearing, because they are more like the me I want to be than the me that I am.
If you came over to my house to play and touched my embarrassing personal grooming products I'd be a little bit mad at you forever. (I can't help that I'm hirsute, pimpled and wrinkly and like to cover it up a bit.)
The colours in those eighties Southwestern or country colour schemes make me want to shave my eyeballs with a cheese grater. (You know, peach and teal with gray; "country" blue with maroon and forest green and bonneted geese - it's because our home came with those colours, and they are very hard to eradicate.)
The colours of Kraft paper with black, and lately, I am LOVING chocolate brown with red , well they are so beautiful that when I see them, a beam of light comes down and I hear a choir sing.
Black licorice (and its nasty cohort anise) makes me gag, feel it in my mouth for a minute, and then swallow it back down rather than spit it out (or else I just don't like it, but I'm too nice to say it.)
I might get sick or die if I touch or ingest cheap 50/50 sheets and overcooked vegetables, or look at slutty-looking dolls intended for little girls.
Products that propose solutions but create more problems (like things to hold bath toys and keep your bathroom cleaner but that will need more cleaning than the toys themselves) and wasteful packaging give me the willies and I might need to consider a frontal lobotomy if I even think about it further.
I love the feel of cashmere and some of those new microfiber fluffy things that they make blankets and kids' toys with these days so much I want to hump it like a puppy on a sofa pillow.
No one should have to watch me eat carmelly custardy good things like flan and crème brulee and toffee ice cream and warm rice pudding, because then I might consider being polite enough to share, and I don't want to share it.
I'm a grown-up now, so I don't have to eat "cold-cuts" anymore, and you can't make me.
If I could invent a way to permanently coat my nostril hairs with this
scent, I'd be my own biggest customer: vanillatoffeenutellachocolatecoffee. (What? There isn't such a thing? Well, somebody invent it please.)
Three things I like that anyone might like: dark smoooooooth beautiful chocolate, craft items and paper, beautiful vintage illustrations.
Three things I like that nobody else in the world likes: folk art that borders on the scary and disturbed, including vernacular photography (old snapshots where by accident, something wonderful was captured or the composition is accidentally beautiful or eerie); annotated cards, musty old children's books and stuff that's been written on with personal notes and letters from long ago; grandma-knit things like mittens, slippers and hats even if the wool is scratchy.
I have too many kitchen utensils, and not enough stuff to read.
Okay, we know the best things in life aren't things, but these are the best
things in life if there are going to be best things: handmade things; antique things with a history that shows in their wear; and home-made baked goods perhaps with some vanillatoffeenutellachocolatecoffee.
When people have kind, sweet and nice things about me, they're usually
talking about (as was once said when I was student of the month in an aerobics class) that I'm funny and intense (I know - in an aerobics class I was funny and intense, which is how someone gets to be student of the month!), and that I try really really hard to be "good". When they say I'm a sarcastic procrastinating over-promiser, they're usually right too.
It's true, I'm a Blogger. I'm learning to be proud of it.
If I could have any talent in the world, I'd choose to be able to manage money, so that I'd have more to give to charity, enough to know we'll be comfortable as we age or for emergencies, and enough so that I could by fewer, larger, really great pieces of art rather than (I mean in addition to) the small but affordable ones that make me happy, but don't deeply fulfill me.
You are given a day and a no-limit credit card to spend in one of these
places, childfree. Choose one, or write your own: * I wrote my own.
Can I go to the American Folk Art Museum, alone please - or maybe with one good friend who will know when to be quiet and when to speak; and maybe I could buy something and also donate to the museum, and then go and buy what I need to make whatever I've been inspired to create by the visit? Then, can I go have a great meal, with a lovely bourbon and a nice dessert, and look through some of the expensive coffee table books that I'd buy in the gift store, having a conversation with a cool old bartender-guy? And then, can I have a bath and a nap in a nice hotel room with my family? Please? (Can you tell I think about this every day?)
And here's the last chance to make sure that you're not going to get a
"Jelly of the Month" club membership when you're expecting your bonus for a
swimming pool:
It is important to me that the items chosen for me are chosen with care, and show me that you had as much fun shopping for them as I'll have receiving them.
And, maybe, there will be something soft enough to stuff down my pants.
I also hate excess packaging, and you must know that I save all my plastics that can't go in the recycling bin in order to bring them to our local Environment days, but then missed them all this year so I have about seven garbage bags full of plastic packaging in our basement and it really really bothers Steve that I was so overly ambitious in an area where few other people care.
(Examples: respect my Wal-Mart boycott, are vegan, aren't made by child or
sweatshop labour, can be stuffed down my pants)
And
If I could suggest that you read only one post from my archives, this would
be it: YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME? (Following all the links, of course. What? That's cheating?)
And
If I were to name the Holiday of my choice for this exchange, it would be:
HOLIDAY! (But, if you were to happen to find some awesome vintage Christmas stuff, VINTAGE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY!)
And so, there are my answers. Go forth, and be shoppy, oh mystery gifter person!
Last year, it really was great, and overall, successful - though there were a few minor glitches with mailings. Happily, I ended up receiving more than just awesome gifts - I found someone who is now my friend in things artsy and shopping on-line with out hearts in our wallets and I'M SO HAPPY ABOUT THAT.
For me, the pleasure of shopping was also one of the best parts. I loved finding gifty thingies for my recipient, Sarah. Since then, we've been corresponding privately, and it's such a joy to receive something from her in my inbox. That, I think, is exactly what Andrea and I hoped for -- for bloggers to just plain be nice to each other, even just once, across our differences and space and time -- and maybe to make new friends. I think the best part was that the presents are for the bloggers themselves, not for sharing - it's permission to be selfish. How often do we get that?
So, this year I am looking forward to a day of thinking about someone other than myself, and then in return, receiving a bunch of stuff from someone who's been thinking about me. How just plain nice that will be.
Here are my answers:
If I could, I'd invent a personal soundtrack device, and damn it, the world needs one because, everything sounds better in the movies, perhaps because of the swelling strings and a well-chosen eighties hit like "I Melt With You".
I sometimes buy shirts in colours other than black, which I end up not wearing, because they are more like the me I want to be than the me that I am.
If you came over to my house to play and touched my embarrassing personal grooming products I'd be a little bit mad at you forever. (I can't help that I'm hirsute, pimpled and wrinkly and like to cover it up a bit.)
The colours in those eighties Southwestern or country colour schemes make me want to shave my eyeballs with a cheese grater. (You know, peach and teal with gray; "country" blue with maroon and forest green and bonneted geese - it's because our home came with those colours, and they are very hard to eradicate.)
The colours of Kraft paper with black, and lately, I am LOVING chocolate brown with red , well they are so beautiful that when I see them, a beam of light comes down and I hear a choir sing.
Black licorice (and its nasty cohort anise) makes me gag, feel it in my mouth for a minute, and then swallow it back down rather than spit it out (or else I just don't like it, but I'm too nice to say it.)
I might get sick or die if I touch or ingest cheap 50/50 sheets and overcooked vegetables, or look at slutty-looking dolls intended for little girls.
Products that propose solutions but create more problems (like things to hold bath toys and keep your bathroom cleaner but that will need more cleaning than the toys themselves) and wasteful packaging give me the willies and I might need to consider a frontal lobotomy if I even think about it further.
I love the feel of cashmere and some of those new microfiber fluffy things that they make blankets and kids' toys with these days so much I want to hump it like a puppy on a sofa pillow.
No one should have to watch me eat carmelly custardy good things like flan and crème brulee and toffee ice cream and warm rice pudding, because then I might consider being polite enough to share, and I don't want to share it.
I'm a grown-up now, so I don't have to eat "cold-cuts" anymore, and you can't make me.
If I could invent a way to permanently coat my nostril hairs with this
scent, I'd be my own biggest customer: vanillatoffeenutellachocolatecoffee. (What? There isn't such a thing? Well, somebody invent it please.)
Three things I like that anyone might like: dark smoooooooth beautiful chocolate, craft items and paper, beautiful vintage illustrations.
Three things I like that nobody else in the world likes: folk art that borders on the scary and disturbed, including vernacular photography (old snapshots where by accident, something wonderful was captured or the composition is accidentally beautiful or eerie); annotated cards, musty old children's books and stuff that's been written on with personal notes and letters from long ago; grandma-knit things like mittens, slippers and hats even if the wool is scratchy.
I have too many kitchen utensils, and not enough stuff to read.
Okay, we know the best things in life aren't things, but these are the best
things in life if there are going to be best things: handmade things; antique things with a history that shows in their wear; and home-made baked goods perhaps with some vanillatoffeenutellachocolatecoffee.
When people have kind, sweet and nice things about me, they're usually
talking about (as was once said when I was student of the month in an aerobics class) that I'm funny and intense (I know - in an aerobics class I was funny and intense, which is how someone gets to be student of the month!), and that I try really really hard to be "good". When they say I'm a sarcastic procrastinating over-promiser, they're usually right too.
It's true, I'm a Blogger. I'm learning to be proud of it.
If I could have any talent in the world, I'd choose to be able to manage money, so that I'd have more to give to charity, enough to know we'll be comfortable as we age or for emergencies, and enough so that I could by fewer, larger, really great pieces of art rather than (I mean in addition to) the small but affordable ones that make me happy, but don't deeply fulfill me.
You are given a day and a no-limit credit card to spend in one of these
places, childfree. Choose one, or write your own: * I wrote my own.
Can I go to the American Folk Art Museum, alone please - or maybe with one good friend who will know when to be quiet and when to speak; and maybe I could buy something and also donate to the museum, and then go and buy what I need to make whatever I've been inspired to create by the visit? Then, can I go have a great meal, with a lovely bourbon and a nice dessert, and look through some of the expensive coffee table books that I'd buy in the gift store, having a conversation with a cool old bartender-guy? And then, can I have a bath and a nap in a nice hotel room with my family? Please? (Can you tell I think about this every day?)
And here's the last chance to make sure that you're not going to get a
"Jelly of the Month" club membership when you're expecting your bonus for a
swimming pool:
It is important to me that the items chosen for me are chosen with care, and show me that you had as much fun shopping for them as I'll have receiving them.
And, maybe, there will be something soft enough to stuff down my pants.
I also hate excess packaging, and you must know that I save all my plastics that can't go in the recycling bin in order to bring them to our local Environment days, but then missed them all this year so I have about seven garbage bags full of plastic packaging in our basement and it really really bothers Steve that I was so overly ambitious in an area where few other people care.
(Examples: respect my Wal-Mart boycott, are vegan, aren't made by child or
sweatshop labour, can be stuffed down my pants)
And
If I could suggest that you read only one post from my archives, this would
be it: YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME? (Following all the links, of course. What? That's cheating?)
And
If I were to name the Holiday of my choice for this exchange, it would be:
HOLIDAY! (But, if you were to happen to find some awesome vintage Christmas stuff, VINTAGE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY!)
And so, there are my answers. Go forth, and be shoppy, oh mystery gifter person!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Company's A Comin, Paw! A Letter to My Guests
*edited to add an image of Boo Boo, in order to achieve the full effect
This Friday night, after the Motherlode panel, and a swell soirée, I'm going to host two of my favourite bloggy friends for an old fashioned slumber party, complete with frozen bras, hands in warm water while sleeping, and ticklefights. What? You guys didn't know about that part?
So, in getting ready, one might think that beyond ridding the house of Boo Boo's fleas, I'd be working my butt off doing things like cleaning the floors and making sure there are no short and curlies on the toilet seat.
No, I have better stuff to do.
Crafts, again.
It's more important to me that my guests have a creative little welcome giftie, than it is for me to run a toothpick around the edge of the sink (though I'll do that too).
Here they are:
You can fight over who gets which one on the way down, although I'll say, Dani, that Josie made the button-covered votive just for you. Andrea - one is beach glass! BEACH GLASS!
Yes, that is Pocky. There is always Pocky.
The socks? Why are there socks in there?
Well, my floors are cold. And sometimes there's stuff on them. I don't know if you're slipper people, but some protective foot covering is required during this season.
Um, what else should you know about my house?
Yes, yes, you're right. I should provide a list. I'll even subdivide it for you.
The House:
It is old. It is um...exhibiting many of the qualities of an old house.
Spiders only live in happy homes, right?
It's always pretty clean - but there are the things that cannot ever be really cleaned. Do not look at them. They are mostly from the waist down. Or, overhead.
Do spend lots of time looking at our neat stuff! We like it too!
Dust is a protective covering.
If you should see any "Offerings to the Drain Gods" or "Offerings to the Floor Gods" please understand I have a husband and a toddler and a cat, and to these said offerings can usually be easily attributed. But if anything moves, run.
The garden - it looks neglected so it will appear to be more spooky for Halloween. Yeah, that's it.
Perhaps first most important, yet I didn't really want to mention it first: the toilet is slow. Most stuff flushes, but there is a special process for #2. You will be shown this process before you need to inform me that you went #2, so that you can perform it and I will not need to know you've made #2.
But, because the house is old, I will hear the process and know you went #2.
If, like one of Steve's bandmates once did, you don't perform the process after going #2, you will be banished forthwith and henceforth.
If, like said bandmember, you are on a brief reprieve from said banishment, and again, you don't perform the process after going #2, you will be banished again (re-banished?) and we WILL talk about you.
The bathtub will be very very clean, and the bathmat has been washed, with bleach, and will be put out, fresh just for you. Having come from a house with a parent's perpetual foot fungus infestation, I have a thing about where my wet feet go too. If this isn't good enough for you, stand on a washcloth like I do at my folks' house.
The bathtub just doesn't look as perfectly clean as I would like it to, because that would require a $400 re-enameling job, and that's not in the cards this year. But I assure you, with all the fervor of an anti-fungal fighter, that it will be pretty damn clean. I guarantee, no short and curlies.
Which is also why you have fresh soap in your giftie. I know how I feel about bar soap in other people's homes.
Again, which is also why there is a brand-new, never-used washcloth in there. Yes, yes, it would be nice not to spend so much time thinking about where things have been.
And so, you will understand that I am proud to tell you that the sofa is new. It has not been "christened" in any way. Yet.
One of you is sleeping on the sofa, one on the spare twin bed with the cheap mattress upstairs. What I said about the sofa doesn't apply to the bed. Sorry. But, all sheets, pillows, bedding and furniture are fresh and clean...and de-flead.
Which brings me to...
The Cat (Boo Boo):
You are aware of Boo Boo, aren't you?
(sighs)
He is mostly outside. Except when he is in, then out, then in, then out, then in again. If he is out and wants in, he will be spying on us from the fence outside. You'll glance out a window, see him perched there or even on the windowsill, and have a heart-attack. If he's in and wants out, he'll walk to the door, look at you, and exhale audibly with impatience.
He has been de-flea'd. De-flead. Whatever. If he's licking himself, it's because he's nasty. If he's scratching himself, it's because he hates his collar, more especially the latest info tag I bought him. So people know he's our fault.
When he is in, he either sleeps on the sofa, or an the spare bed (yes, where each of you are sleeping). He isn't welcome on our bed or on Josie's any longer. Because nothing says "Bad Mommy" like flea bites on your baby during Kinderyoga.
He only eats his crunchies at night when you're trying to doze on the sofa.
He tried to steal my breath last night.
Yes, again, that is the sofa and that means the bed that will be occupied by you, my guests. You can "ask" him to move if it bothers you. I'll provide a spray bottle for the "asking" part.
Well, he may not sleep with you. He might. More likely, he'll sit there and stare at you, so when you open your eyes, you'll have a heart attack.
Boo Boo snores.
When he isn't doing any of the above things, he is sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at nothing (I hope it's nothing). I'm telling you this, but you will forget it, and you will have a heart attack when you walk in and he's right there. He won't move while you use the bathroom either. He just stares.
Speaking of stares, if he's not on the edge of the bathroom sink, he's on the stairs. I recommend throwing a sock or something ahead of you, should you need to go up or down at night, so he at least opens his eyes and you can see him. That way you'll just have a heart attack instead of a fall down the stairs. We're not liable for the former, just so you know.
Try not to look at his crinkle. You can't not. It's just so gross.
The Husband (Steve):
Do not touch his hair.
Do admire it - it's fantastic. He also has a shelf of cool retro products for keeping it in top form. It's really really good hair. His grandfather died with a full head of white hair just like that.
He is kind, and lovely and Josie and I adore him. He feels the same about us, but does not understand blogging and its appeal. He is proud of me, and this Motherlode thingy - but that does not stop him from using "finger quotes" and mis-using the slang just to get my goat.
Steve and I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed latte's on Saturday mornings. He and Josephine usually will go and get them from the funky shop around the corner. I will take care of any "favours" necessary to make that happen.
Oh yes...talk of "favours" may occur from time to time. We all have needs in this house, and ways to see they are met. Do just carry on.
The husband's hearing has suffered some from the effects of too much loud music as a teen-twenty-thirty-forty-something. It's good to have his attention before you start talking to him. I have a particular method, and Josie uses it too. Our friends are used to it. You probably won't get over it for a bit though, and it takes time and practice to perfect. I'd suggest you just make sure he's looking at you when you talk.
He calls me Pea. As in "Sweet Pea". Not as in "Urine."
The Toddler (Josephine):
She is a toddler. Toddler things happen. We call them "Life's Little Mysteries".
Sometimes the explanation is better than the mystery. Do ask her. I love being entertained in this way.
I just taught her the metal Slinky trick. It may buy us a few moments of peace and quiet. I've been saving it for just such an occasion as this.
This is the RAT family. Daddy Rat, Mommy Rat, and Baby Rat. DO NOT call them mice. That will lead to whining and crying and lordy knows what for not just minutes -- ages.
The RAT family represents our family in role and imaginative play. So I must provide this disclaimer: Any re-enactments of situations or conversations made by the Rat family do not necessarily represent real or imagined acts by our actual family. Although they probably do.
All that said - having/having had toddlers, you know, it's better to ask questions than to make assumptions. So, the little toy fawn in the above image? Instead of saying "Is that little fawn named Bambi?", which will cause the welling up of big blue eyes, a look of horror and then the whine "Itz noooooot nameded Baaaaaambiiiiiiiii. Itz nooootaaaaafaaaaaaaaaaaawnnnnn. Itz a baaaby deeeer named Ruuuuudolph!"; you say "And who is this little guy?". To which she'll reply "Thisz is such a nice nice baby deer named RuuuDOLPH. Baby deers are alszo called fa-awns", which is much, much nicer for all of us.
The Rat family hangs with a little bear who is either a friend or a sister. That changes often. There is no consistency or reason. Her name, to the best of our ability to decipher Josie's toddler speech impediments, sounds like "Episode". We just mumble it, and suggest you do too. Unless, that is, you want to find out for us. I could perform "favours' of some sort for that kind of clarification of one of "Life's Little Mysteries".
The toddler can be either really really grumpy in the morning, or really really sweet. It's a crapshoot. We'll clue you in, you roll with it, mmmkay?
Due to said toddler, there is a potty in the dining room. It makes more things better than it makes worse. Yes, I do pour her urine down my kitchen sink, but urine is sterile from a clean healthy person, and she is, and I really, really, really clean the sink afterward. Personally, I'm more freaked out by raw chicken, right Dani? Are ya with me? Hey - anyone who wants to wash urine off my floors, or do the toddler laundry that comes with "uh oh" can suggest I do something else with it. When you're little, the upstairs bathroom is a long way off. And the basement batroom is not an option this decade.
You might have to listen to "Roly Poly" by Colonel Tom & the Loose Cannon about eleventyhundred times. She's picked up on my compulsive listening habits. Which is why you'll also hear a lot of Solomon Burke.
We may be using some er...creative parenting techniques in conjunction with my pal Kate, as per her recent post.
The toddler is the sweetest thing ever, and when you see her morning moppet head, you will turn into a puddle of heart-melting goo on the spot. Just please, please don't touch it. She will say she LIKES hair in her eyes. I will try to put a "buh a doo" (which is what we call a barette in this house) in so it doesn't annoy me either.
The hostess (Me!):
I talk a lot.
I shed hair at an alarming rate. Like, a post-partumly shedding rate; and it's hideous. And I have a lot of hair. I don't know how it gets on the stairs and stuff, unless I'm walking around in a cloud of it like Pigpen. But that's why I gave you socks.
I don't sleep much. I'll pee at least once in the middle of the night just for a change of scenery.
I tidy as I go. Can't not. It makes me late-ish sometimes a lot-ish.
I'm currently eating way too many of those Ikea oatmealbutterysugarycrispy cookies. Those, with a little Nutella? Oy.
I'm a spaz.
I guess this post kind of proves it.
This Friday night, after the Motherlode panel, and a swell soirée, I'm going to host two of my favourite bloggy friends for an old fashioned slumber party, complete with frozen bras, hands in warm water while sleeping, and ticklefights. What? You guys didn't know about that part?
So, in getting ready, one might think that beyond ridding the house of Boo Boo's fleas, I'd be working my butt off doing things like cleaning the floors and making sure there are no short and curlies on the toilet seat.
No, I have better stuff to do.
Crafts, again.
It's more important to me that my guests have a creative little welcome giftie, than it is for me to run a toothpick around the edge of the sink (though I'll do that too).
Here they are:
You can fight over who gets which one on the way down, although I'll say, Dani, that Josie made the button-covered votive just for you. Andrea - one is beach glass! BEACH GLASS!
Yes, that is Pocky. There is always Pocky.
The socks? Why are there socks in there?
Well, my floors are cold. And sometimes there's stuff on them. I don't know if you're slipper people, but some protective foot covering is required during this season.
Um, what else should you know about my house?
Yes, yes, you're right. I should provide a list. I'll even subdivide it for you.
The House:
It is old. It is um...exhibiting many of the qualities of an old house.
Spiders only live in happy homes, right?
It's always pretty clean - but there are the things that cannot ever be really cleaned. Do not look at them. They are mostly from the waist down. Or, overhead.
Do spend lots of time looking at our neat stuff! We like it too!
Dust is a protective covering.
If you should see any "Offerings to the Drain Gods" or "Offerings to the Floor Gods" please understand I have a husband and a toddler and a cat, and to these said offerings can usually be easily attributed. But if anything moves, run.
The garden - it looks neglected so it will appear to be more spooky for Halloween. Yeah, that's it.
Perhaps first most important, yet I didn't really want to mention it first: the toilet is slow. Most stuff flushes, but there is a special process for #2. You will be shown this process before you need to inform me that you went #2, so that you can perform it and I will not need to know you've made #2.
But, because the house is old, I will hear the process and know you went #2.
If, like one of Steve's bandmates once did, you don't perform the process after going #2, you will be banished forthwith and henceforth.
If, like said bandmember, you are on a brief reprieve from said banishment, and again, you don't perform the process after going #2, you will be banished again (re-banished?) and we WILL talk about you.
The bathtub will be very very clean, and the bathmat has been washed, with bleach, and will be put out, fresh just for you. Having come from a house with a parent's perpetual foot fungus infestation, I have a thing about where my wet feet go too. If this isn't good enough for you, stand on a washcloth like I do at my folks' house.
The bathtub just doesn't look as perfectly clean as I would like it to, because that would require a $400 re-enameling job, and that's not in the cards this year. But I assure you, with all the fervor of an anti-fungal fighter, that it will be pretty damn clean. I guarantee, no short and curlies.
Which is also why you have fresh soap in your giftie. I know how I feel about bar soap in other people's homes.
Again, which is also why there is a brand-new, never-used washcloth in there. Yes, yes, it would be nice not to spend so much time thinking about where things have been.
And so, you will understand that I am proud to tell you that the sofa is new. It has not been "christened" in any way. Yet.
One of you is sleeping on the sofa, one on the spare twin bed with the cheap mattress upstairs. What I said about the sofa doesn't apply to the bed. Sorry. But, all sheets, pillows, bedding and furniture are fresh and clean...and de-flead.
Which brings me to...
The Cat (Boo Boo):
You are aware of Boo Boo, aren't you?
(sighs)
He is mostly outside. Except when he is in, then out, then in, then out, then in again. If he is out and wants in, he will be spying on us from the fence outside. You'll glance out a window, see him perched there or even on the windowsill, and have a heart-attack. If he's in and wants out, he'll walk to the door, look at you, and exhale audibly with impatience.
He has been de-flea'd. De-flead. Whatever. If he's licking himself, it's because he's nasty. If he's scratching himself, it's because he hates his collar, more especially the latest info tag I bought him. So people know he's our fault.
When he is in, he either sleeps on the sofa, or an the spare bed (yes, where each of you are sleeping). He isn't welcome on our bed or on Josie's any longer. Because nothing says "Bad Mommy" like flea bites on your baby during Kinderyoga.
He only eats his crunchies at night when you're trying to doze on the sofa.
He tried to steal my breath last night.
Yes, again, that is the sofa and that means the bed that will be occupied by you, my guests. You can "ask" him to move if it bothers you. I'll provide a spray bottle for the "asking" part.
Well, he may not sleep with you. He might. More likely, he'll sit there and stare at you, so when you open your eyes, you'll have a heart attack.
Boo Boo snores.
When he isn't doing any of the above things, he is sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at nothing (I hope it's nothing). I'm telling you this, but you will forget it, and you will have a heart attack when you walk in and he's right there. He won't move while you use the bathroom either. He just stares.
Speaking of stares, if he's not on the edge of the bathroom sink, he's on the stairs. I recommend throwing a sock or something ahead of you, should you need to go up or down at night, so he at least opens his eyes and you can see him. That way you'll just have a heart attack instead of a fall down the stairs. We're not liable for the former, just so you know.
Try not to look at his crinkle. You can't not. It's just so gross.
The Husband (Steve):
Do not touch his hair.
Do admire it - it's fantastic. He also has a shelf of cool retro products for keeping it in top form. It's really really good hair. His grandfather died with a full head of white hair just like that.
He is kind, and lovely and Josie and I adore him. He feels the same about us, but does not understand blogging and its appeal. He is proud of me, and this Motherlode thingy - but that does not stop him from using "finger quotes" and mis-using the slang just to get my goat.
Steve and I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed latte's on Saturday mornings. He and Josephine usually will go and get them from the funky shop around the corner. I will take care of any "favours" necessary to make that happen.
Oh yes...talk of "favours" may occur from time to time. We all have needs in this house, and ways to see they are met. Do just carry on.
The husband's hearing has suffered some from the effects of too much loud music as a teen-twenty-thirty-forty-something. It's good to have his attention before you start talking to him. I have a particular method, and Josie uses it too. Our friends are used to it. You probably won't get over it for a bit though, and it takes time and practice to perfect. I'd suggest you just make sure he's looking at you when you talk.
He calls me Pea. As in "Sweet Pea". Not as in "Urine."
The Toddler (Josephine):
She is a toddler. Toddler things happen. We call them "Life's Little Mysteries".
Sometimes the explanation is better than the mystery. Do ask her. I love being entertained in this way.
I just taught her the metal Slinky trick. It may buy us a few moments of peace and quiet. I've been saving it for just such an occasion as this.
This is the RAT family. Daddy Rat, Mommy Rat, and Baby Rat. DO NOT call them mice. That will lead to whining and crying and lordy knows what for not just minutes -- ages.
The RAT family represents our family in role and imaginative play. So I must provide this disclaimer: Any re-enactments of situations or conversations made by the Rat family do not necessarily represent real or imagined acts by our actual family. Although they probably do.
All that said - having/having had toddlers, you know, it's better to ask questions than to make assumptions. So, the little toy fawn in the above image? Instead of saying "Is that little fawn named Bambi?", which will cause the welling up of big blue eyes, a look of horror and then the whine "Itz noooooot nameded Baaaaaambiiiiiiiii. Itz nooootaaaaafaaaaaaaaaaaawnnnnn. Itz a baaaby deeeer named Ruuuuudolph!"; you say "And who is this little guy?". To which she'll reply "Thisz is such a nice nice baby deer named RuuuDOLPH. Baby deers are alszo called fa-awns", which is much, much nicer for all of us.
The Rat family hangs with a little bear who is either a friend or a sister. That changes often. There is no consistency or reason. Her name, to the best of our ability to decipher Josie's toddler speech impediments, sounds like "Episode". We just mumble it, and suggest you do too. Unless, that is, you want to find out for us. I could perform "favours' of some sort for that kind of clarification of one of "Life's Little Mysteries".
The toddler can be either really really grumpy in the morning, or really really sweet. It's a crapshoot. We'll clue you in, you roll with it, mmmkay?
Due to said toddler, there is a potty in the dining room. It makes more things better than it makes worse. Yes, I do pour her urine down my kitchen sink, but urine is sterile from a clean healthy person, and she is, and I really, really, really clean the sink afterward. Personally, I'm more freaked out by raw chicken, right Dani? Are ya with me? Hey - anyone who wants to wash urine off my floors, or do the toddler laundry that comes with "uh oh" can suggest I do something else with it. When you're little, the upstairs bathroom is a long way off. And the basement batroom is not an option this decade.
You might have to listen to "Roly Poly" by Colonel Tom & the Loose Cannon about eleventyhundred times. She's picked up on my compulsive listening habits. Which is why you'll also hear a lot of Solomon Burke.
We may be using some er...creative parenting techniques in conjunction with my pal Kate, as per her recent post.
The toddler is the sweetest thing ever, and when you see her morning moppet head, you will turn into a puddle of heart-melting goo on the spot. Just please, please don't touch it. She will say she LIKES hair in her eyes. I will try to put a "buh a doo" (which is what we call a barette in this house) in so it doesn't annoy me either.
The hostess (Me!):
I talk a lot.
I shed hair at an alarming rate. Like, a post-partumly shedding rate; and it's hideous. And I have a lot of hair. I don't know how it gets on the stairs and stuff, unless I'm walking around in a cloud of it like Pigpen. But that's why I gave you socks.
I don't sleep much. I'll pee at least once in the middle of the night just for a change of scenery.
I tidy as I go. Can't not. It makes me late-ish sometimes a lot-ish.
I'm currently eating way too many of those Ikea oatmealbutterysugarycrispy cookies. Those, with a little Nutella? Oy.
I'm a spaz.
I guess this post kind of proves it.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Ambition, and Results
One of the best parts of having Josephine is doing little projects. It's something I like to do anyway, because, well, it's fun.
Yesterday, on the way home from running errands, we picked up sticks and leaves, with no real idea what we'd do with them.
Well, after dinner, I had a thought, and set about working on it. I asked Josephine to help, but interrupting what she was doing, and actually getting her to the table meant by the time she ambled over, all the fun parts, like sticking the sticks into the foam were done. Then, explaining that odd numbers of sticks are more aesthetically pleasing and so we CAN'T have four and all of my other control-freak stuff like making sure the prettiest leaves were on top meant that it was really not much fun, so then it became a lesson about learning to follow directions and making choices rather than a wily nilly free for all. I think that's important too. We still had some fun, and it was better than, oh, the matching socks game.
Now, I have this new thing...for lack of a better word, it's just a decision. I've made a few projects with Josie in the past, not really thinking about where they'll end up in two months, ten or a hundred years, and so I realized that working with found objects, or making crafts that can be dismantled and the parts used again was a much, much better idea.
I mean, this one was really kind of neat, and kept her absorbed for a good twenty minutes. It's still pretty - but it's not our best project and we could have done better. Although we enjoyed collecting the watermelon seeds, adhering them to an artist's board with Mod Podge meant we created something useless that will be around for way too long. That's not being very nice to the Earth, unless the organic yellow watermelon seeds have now been preserved in a way that future generations will thank us for, because we'll provide some kind of sustenance that will save their society (crosses fingers and hopes).
So the project we made last night, if a tutorial is needed, was made with sticks that looked like trees and leaves from the park nearby. I stuck them in flower arranging foam (and yes, I am the kind of person who has it in reserve - I used to do silk flower arrangements as a way of spending time and making something for Grandma Josephine, if you'll remember) (but you could use Play-doh, Styrofoam packing or even a Juice box with holes cut in it to support the branches) and covered it with the leaves. I can take it out after, and use it again. Actually, the crappier the leaves, the better and more haunted it looks.
The ghost is made from a scrap of a sheer curtain that Boo Boo shredded a few months ago. We're making other ghosts this week with it, and we can keep and re-use these every Halloween. The cool thing? When I used a marker to make dots for his eyes, the fabric wicked it into the "X" shapes. It's wrapped around a cotton ball, tied with some fusible web (left over from hemming some Ikea curtains from years ago) and it's on top of a plastic cocktail pick (left over from a party years and years ago. I could, conceivably, re-use the cotton ball and pick, and the webbing another time, but it's made well-enough to last few Halloweens. The ghost could also be made out of a Kleenex, part of a plastic grocery bag, or any scrap of fabric. You could stuff it with a used sandwich bag (one of my other thoughts, until I realized the cotton ball is more proportionate), or, whatever; and tie it with thread.
There is a black cat in there, made with the last bit of black Play-doh that only had a little bit of purple mixed in. None of our Play-Doh is pure any more, because mixing is fun for Josie. It will dry and look freaky and warped, and last a few more years.
It's in a plant dish that I found somewhere in the house when we bought it, that I've used for the five years we've lived here in a dozen different ways.
Here it is a little brighter, and you can click on any of these to make the images bigger:
It's hard to explain to Josie that this is "Mommy's Decoration" and not really a toy. She gets that, and has lost interest in it entirely at this point, and not due to following any instructions, mind you.
She is much happier with the other prototype ghost, made from something I swept out from under a dresser upstairs on Sunday. Josephine had gone through a phase where it was fun to explore my personal things, and while I made an attempt to re-assemble them and keep them clean enough to use -- this one fell under the radar. Paying homage to Rober Earl Keen's "Merry Christmas from the Family", I present:
Tampon Ghost.
I will NOT be re-using him. He may, however, become a part of our Halloween tradition. He's very cute, if you don't look too long and notice the string at the bottom.
Yesterday, on the way home from running errands, we picked up sticks and leaves, with no real idea what we'd do with them.
Well, after dinner, I had a thought, and set about working on it. I asked Josephine to help, but interrupting what she was doing, and actually getting her to the table meant by the time she ambled over, all the fun parts, like sticking the sticks into the foam were done. Then, explaining that odd numbers of sticks are more aesthetically pleasing and so we CAN'T have four and all of my other control-freak stuff like making sure the prettiest leaves were on top meant that it was really not much fun, so then it became a lesson about learning to follow directions and making choices rather than a wily nilly free for all. I think that's important too. We still had some fun, and it was better than, oh, the matching socks game.
Now, I have this new thing...for lack of a better word, it's just a decision. I've made a few projects with Josie in the past, not really thinking about where they'll end up in two months, ten or a hundred years, and so I realized that working with found objects, or making crafts that can be dismantled and the parts used again was a much, much better idea.
I mean, this one was really kind of neat, and kept her absorbed for a good twenty minutes. It's still pretty - but it's not our best project and we could have done better. Although we enjoyed collecting the watermelon seeds, adhering them to an artist's board with Mod Podge meant we created something useless that will be around for way too long. That's not being very nice to the Earth, unless the organic yellow watermelon seeds have now been preserved in a way that future generations will thank us for, because we'll provide some kind of sustenance that will save their society (crosses fingers and hopes).
So the project we made last night, if a tutorial is needed, was made with sticks that looked like trees and leaves from the park nearby. I stuck them in flower arranging foam (and yes, I am the kind of person who has it in reserve - I used to do silk flower arrangements as a way of spending time and making something for Grandma Josephine, if you'll remember) (but you could use Play-doh, Styrofoam packing or even a Juice box with holes cut in it to support the branches) and covered it with the leaves. I can take it out after, and use it again. Actually, the crappier the leaves, the better and more haunted it looks.
The ghost is made from a scrap of a sheer curtain that Boo Boo shredded a few months ago. We're making other ghosts this week with it, and we can keep and re-use these every Halloween. The cool thing? When I used a marker to make dots for his eyes, the fabric wicked it into the "X" shapes. It's wrapped around a cotton ball, tied with some fusible web (left over from hemming some Ikea curtains from years ago) and it's on top of a plastic cocktail pick (left over from a party years and years ago. I could, conceivably, re-use the cotton ball and pick, and the webbing another time, but it's made well-enough to last few Halloweens. The ghost could also be made out of a Kleenex, part of a plastic grocery bag, or any scrap of fabric. You could stuff it with a used sandwich bag (one of my other thoughts, until I realized the cotton ball is more proportionate), or, whatever; and tie it with thread.
There is a black cat in there, made with the last bit of black Play-doh that only had a little bit of purple mixed in. None of our Play-Doh is pure any more, because mixing is fun for Josie. It will dry and look freaky and warped, and last a few more years.
It's in a plant dish that I found somewhere in the house when we bought it, that I've used for the five years we've lived here in a dozen different ways.
Here it is a little brighter, and you can click on any of these to make the images bigger:
It's hard to explain to Josie that this is "Mommy's Decoration" and not really a toy. She gets that, and has lost interest in it entirely at this point, and not due to following any instructions, mind you.
She is much happier with the other prototype ghost, made from something I swept out from under a dresser upstairs on Sunday. Josephine had gone through a phase where it was fun to explore my personal things, and while I made an attempt to re-assemble them and keep them clean enough to use -- this one fell under the radar. Paying homage to Rober Earl Keen's "Merry Christmas from the Family", I present:
Tampon Ghost.
I will NOT be re-using him. He may, however, become a part of our Halloween tradition. He's very cute, if you don't look too long and notice the string at the bottom.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Where's My Head At?
Last night (that means Wednesday; if you look at the time stamp, I was having another bout of insomniamania) I met some friends for a drink. At the bus stop, at only 8:30 pm and not even at the scabbier bus stop on the Pape line, I was thrilled to find a genuine eccentric. A tall, white-haired, black-garbed, cadaverous gentleman of indeterminate-but-older-than-me age was carrying a white plastic boom box, which was blasting big band music. All I could think was, "Right ON." Because you know what? I don't have an I-Pod. I don't want music in my head. I want a soundtrack that follows me around. You know, such as has been mocked in many comedic sketches. That's right. It's not that I want to sing and dance myself, but I genuinely, sincerely, would like a few swelling strings once in a while. Of course I don't need to hear "I Melt With You" when I'm looking at a cheeseburger - I don't want to be a walking commercial. I just want further illustration of how I'm feeling and what I'm going through.
It was good to get out of the house today, to get some work done at the local coffee shop, where I didn't have my choice of music, but what was chosen was just perfect. How did they know I needed to hear Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros "Johhny Appleseed" as an antidote to what's been floating around in my bean lately?
Solomon Burke has moved into my head, and he is taking up ALL the room. If there was ever a time I don't need a large, iconic, seventy year old black soul singer who is the father of 21 children, 84 grandchildren and 17 great grandchildren; but more, who can sit on a throne and blow people's freaking minds by getting so DOWN he has to stand up in my head?
Now is the time.
These days, if I'm not swaying back and forth and getting down to "Valley of Tears (the Nashville version)? I'm heading "Up to the Mountain", even as I match socks and use a toothpick to clean around the sink.
Okay, most days I don't have the energy to house the power of Solomon Burke in my head. He knocks me on my ass, and I need to stay there and hear what he's saying. I don't really WANT Solomon Burke in my head when I'm trying to do stuff like buy a sofa and write my Motherlode presentation and keep my toddler happy. Hosting Solomon Burke is exhausting. Especially when my own throne is a saggy sofa with fleas courtesy of Boo Boo.
So here - fleas, Boo Boo until you're flea-less, Solomon and even you, Tymon Dogg who is reminding me that my mandolin is getting dusty -- please, please please -- can I have some peace and quiet?
Until further notice, the space between my ears has a "back on October 29th" notice, unless something else decides to squat in there.
Of course, there is this closet in the back of my brain. It's tiny and airless, and has an old-fashioned tarnished brass lock with a skeleton key in it, and that is where I am keeping your questions for Boo Boo until the end of the month. Please do write and ask him anything, understanding he is a little black kitty cat who spends too much time over at quote sites. I'll submit the questions and the Pounce: hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com.
B: 'Scuse me you. What are this doing on my basket?
Doodles: (Says nothing because it is a stuffed cat.)
M: It's Josephine's cat. And Josephine's basket. Now get your chemically flea-treated crawing itchy self off the basket and away from anything you might get fleas on.
B: Never mind. I fit. What did you say? I was too busy getting over my snit and focusing on my comfort to listen to you.
M: At least get away from Doodles.
B: (two long, slow blinks)
B: Well, you've got a bee in your bonnet, haven't you?
M: (glares)
B: Or, (snickers) a flea in your bonnet! Hey Doodles? Get it?!
M: (holds herself and starts moaning "Everybody wants to send me down to the Valley of Tears", complete with an "I can't hep myself, I'm gonna say it say it say it again."
It was good to get out of the house today, to get some work done at the local coffee shop, where I didn't have my choice of music, but what was chosen was just perfect. How did they know I needed to hear Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros "Johhny Appleseed" as an antidote to what's been floating around in my bean lately?
Solomon Burke has moved into my head, and he is taking up ALL the room. If there was ever a time I don't need a large, iconic, seventy year old black soul singer who is the father of 21 children, 84 grandchildren and 17 great grandchildren; but more, who can sit on a throne and blow people's freaking minds by getting so DOWN he has to stand up in my head?
Now is the time.
These days, if I'm not swaying back and forth and getting down to "Valley of Tears (the Nashville version)? I'm heading "Up to the Mountain", even as I match socks and use a toothpick to clean around the sink.
Okay, most days I don't have the energy to house the power of Solomon Burke in my head. He knocks me on my ass, and I need to stay there and hear what he's saying. I don't really WANT Solomon Burke in my head when I'm trying to do stuff like buy a sofa and write my Motherlode presentation and keep my toddler happy. Hosting Solomon Burke is exhausting. Especially when my own throne is a saggy sofa with fleas courtesy of Boo Boo.
So here - fleas, Boo Boo until you're flea-less, Solomon and even you, Tymon Dogg who is reminding me that my mandolin is getting dusty -- please, please please -- can I have some peace and quiet?
Until further notice, the space between my ears has a "back on October 29th" notice, unless something else decides to squat in there.
Of course, there is this closet in the back of my brain. It's tiny and airless, and has an old-fashioned tarnished brass lock with a skeleton key in it, and that is where I am keeping your questions for Boo Boo until the end of the month. Please do write and ask him anything, understanding he is a little black kitty cat who spends too much time over at quote sites. I'll submit the questions and the Pounce: hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com.
B: 'Scuse me you. What are this doing on my basket?
Doodles: (Says nothing because it is a stuffed cat.)
M: It's Josephine's cat. And Josephine's basket. Now get your chemically flea-treated crawing itchy self off the basket and away from anything you might get fleas on.
B: Never mind. I fit. What did you say? I was too busy getting over my snit and focusing on my comfort to listen to you.
M: At least get away from Doodles.
B: (two long, slow blinks)
B: Well, you've got a bee in your bonnet, haven't you?
M: (glares)
B: Or, (snickers) a flea in your bonnet! Hey Doodles? Get it?!
M: (holds herself and starts moaning "Everybody wants to send me down to the Valley of Tears", complete with an "I can't hep myself, I'm gonna say it say it say it again."
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Sayonara Sofa.
When Ann, MY FRIEND, and I am so happy I can say that she is asked if anyone wanted to be a part of her Blog Book tour, it took me a while to figure out how I could join in, and, still sound like me. I sat down, and looked around, and thought and thought. And here is what I came up with.
This is what my ass did to our sofa.
Wait...you don't get to see it yet. You need to know the full scope, the horror, of what my the weight of me, centred on my buttocks, did.
Five years ago, when we bought our house, we bought a new sofa too.
Okay, it wasn't new. But it was new to us.
It was like new, in that it was about sixty years old, but the plastic had just come off.
It came with a matching chair.
Okay, it came with two matching chairs, but we didn't want the mustard-coloured one, so the store owner happily divvied them up between us and the woman who only wanted the mustard chair.
And, the two pieces were only $250, tax in, delivered.
The day we got it home, Homey, the cat that came with our new home, which was really a hundred year old money pit of a home, but it was new to us , shredded the bouclé fabric.
Then we had to unfold it and sleep on it (it's really a davenport, but I couldn't find a cool title with a "goodbye" that began with a "D" word and you would think I was prissy and artsy if I referred to the daaaaahvenport.) for three months while we lived in the living room and renovated the upstairs.
Beauty, a 90 (95 in the cold weather) pound Rottweiler spent a lot of time on it too. Now, that was a dog with an ass that could really wreck things.
But, it wasn't until I was pregnant, nurturing up to another forty-five pounds over those expectant months that the real damage was done. I slept fitfully on it because, though it supported my back and kept me on my side, it was a little scratchy. It's in front of the TV, so I could fill my insomniac nights with some wonderfully crappy TV; but it gives me a headache to watch TV laying down, so I prefer to sit. It was perfectly, um, serviceable.
It soon became noticeable that when I stood up, the sofa did not spring back into shape again.
Then, the damage was further aggravated by the first full year of sleeplessness on the parts of both me, and Josephine. It was where we sat and nursed and spooned and slept and read books and played finger games and sang songs and cuddled.
I carved a niche for myself on the sofa, a hollow that now spoons me like a lover.
This is a flattering picture of it. It's not right to treat it badly after all it did for us, but, it is what it is:
Steve...oh, my Steve. He is so unhappy. He loved the sofa, and cannot bear to look at what it's become. But, but he does not want to get rid of it, and I constantly have to remind him that he loves the sofa that used to be, not the sofa it is now.
I have not loved it since the first time Boo Boo peed on it. I have hated it since the second time he peed on it. For the record, my daughter has also peed on it, and well, post-pregnancy, um...yeah.
I've cleaned it, and shampooed it, and dressed it in throws and pillows and...and...and..the time has come to admit that it is now no longer charmingly shabby and slouchy. A bachelor wouldn't even have this sofa in his house.
This sofa is kaput.
But one or two or three other things I did on this sofa (minds out of gutters, please) ? I read Ann's books - the whole "Mother of All" series, as I was pregnant, then as a new parent, then as the mother of a toddler.
And so when she put out the call for mothers to answer questions for an upcoming sleep book, I signed on mostly because I love the challenge of answering questions. I'd read so much, and dealt with so many frustrations because of my own sleep problems . I wanted to help, to share, to contribute. I remembered how the rotten nights preyed on my days.
Then, she asked me to read her (then) new sleep book as she was writing it, from a parent's perspective, and to comment on it. So, my comments were in it, both behind the scenes and within the text, because sleep? It is an issue around this house. I could tell you about parenting and sleep. Or, just ask my sofa.
So, from behind the scenes, I got to see what Ann puts into her books. She agonizes, she worries, she cares. She gets giddy and excited like a little girl when she finds some fascinating research. And if her books are good, especially those in the "Solutions" series, it's because she's read every other book out there, looked at hundreds of websites, and read the responses of hundreds of women to her well-chosen questions; and then she tempers and shapes it all. It came to be that the books had to be edited down to fit the publisher's specifications - it is after all, an overview to all the possible solutions, not a guarantee. But, as it is, it helps. It would have helped me. And it hurt Ann to lose even one bit of it. Each book is like a baby to her. She is just not a heartless dissemination machine. Far from it.
When it came time for me to help witht the Mealtime Solutions book too, I didn't have any pithy remarks that made it to print.
Because why?
Sleep was hard for our family. Food was easy. I remember at one point Ann worrying because another reviewer, who wasn't a parent, thought the quotes from some of the moms were so "dark". DARN TOOTIN'. The funny and the depth and the pathos from the quotes of the moms interviewed, including me, came from the myriad issues around sleep - the dealing our families' reactions, the being blindsided by the fatigue, the worry, and the...oh my god, here I am on the damn sofa right now and look at Gene Anthony Ray's legs in those short shorts (and I am not going to try to find a link) in the Fame (the tv show) re-run that is on right now...sorry.
So um, I looked at this sofa today.
And I can think about it, or another one, because my parents have heard the saga of our sofa enough times, and they know and disdain our sofa, and today they told me to start shopping. I think I have another thing to thank Grandma Josephine for, as much as them.
And I am thinking that red corduroy is looking pretty cheery and good right now, because the bad sleep period is pretty much behind us and a fun sofa would be a great symbol for moving on. Perhaps our old sofa, who served us well, but may be harbouring some bad voodoo after all this time, needs to go. It's dark, and scratchy and mean now - like the sleep deprivation years. Now we need comfort and life and fun for a toddler. I am not a new mom any more - and just as sleep issues pass in and out of our lives, so do sofas.
I actually really really do think about the new moms, in the trenches, as I am now cresting on a great period of a toddler who sleeps pretty well. My quote to the effect (too lazy to get off the sofa to walk over to my desk to get the book) that made the pages, was, that when I was told about the sleep deprivation that comes with new parenthood, I understood it the way I'd understand a brain surgeon telling me about operating - or like a bird telling me about flying. You don't know the length and breadth and depth of it until you're in it yourself - and now that I'm way past it...ohhhhhh yesssssss.
If I could go back and add one more thing to the book, it would be this:
That we didn't take any pictures of the awake and hard-up-against-the-crazy, and the sleepless and screaming times.
We captured images of Josie sleeping because there is nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child.
Nothing.
STOP IT.
Don't even try.
Perhaps we don't always aspire to have our children sleep only for our health or theirs - maybe, we do it in part because it's gazing at peace.
I won't forget the hard times, though I'd like to. I will look back and love the beautiful sleeps we did have. You don't know how utterly sublime the good ones were, and are, until the worst is over. She looks like this right now, upstairs in her wee bed. If you look at the timestamp? It's time for me to get off the daaaahvenport, go kiss her, and then go to my own bed to dream about a new sofa.
Thanks so much for reading. I always enjoy receiving emails at hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com. But it's okay if you don't want to write too.
This is what my ass did to our sofa.
Wait...you don't get to see it yet. You need to know the full scope, the horror, of what my the weight of me, centred on my buttocks, did.
Five years ago, when we bought our house, we bought a new sofa too.
Okay, it wasn't new. But it was new to us.
It was like new, in that it was about sixty years old, but the plastic had just come off.
It came with a matching chair.
Okay, it came with two matching chairs, but we didn't want the mustard-coloured one, so the store owner happily divvied them up between us and the woman who only wanted the mustard chair.
And, the two pieces were only $250, tax in, delivered.
The day we got it home, Homey, the cat that came with our new home, which was really a hundred year old money pit of a home, but it was new to us , shredded the bouclé fabric.
Then we had to unfold it and sleep on it (it's really a davenport, but I couldn't find a cool title with a "goodbye" that began with a "D" word and you would think I was prissy and artsy if I referred to the daaaaahvenport.) for three months while we lived in the living room and renovated the upstairs.
Beauty, a 90 (95 in the cold weather) pound Rottweiler spent a lot of time on it too. Now, that was a dog with an ass that could really wreck things.
But, it wasn't until I was pregnant, nurturing up to another forty-five pounds over those expectant months that the real damage was done. I slept fitfully on it because, though it supported my back and kept me on my side, it was a little scratchy. It's in front of the TV, so I could fill my insomniac nights with some wonderfully crappy TV; but it gives me a headache to watch TV laying down, so I prefer to sit. It was perfectly, um, serviceable.
It soon became noticeable that when I stood up, the sofa did not spring back into shape again.
Then, the damage was further aggravated by the first full year of sleeplessness on the parts of both me, and Josephine. It was where we sat and nursed and spooned and slept and read books and played finger games and sang songs and cuddled.
I carved a niche for myself on the sofa, a hollow that now spoons me like a lover.
This is a flattering picture of it. It's not right to treat it badly after all it did for us, but, it is what it is:
Steve...oh, my Steve. He is so unhappy. He loved the sofa, and cannot bear to look at what it's become. But, but he does not want to get rid of it, and I constantly have to remind him that he loves the sofa that used to be, not the sofa it is now.
I have not loved it since the first time Boo Boo peed on it. I have hated it since the second time he peed on it. For the record, my daughter has also peed on it, and well, post-pregnancy, um...yeah.
I've cleaned it, and shampooed it, and dressed it in throws and pillows and...and...and..the time has come to admit that it is now no longer charmingly shabby and slouchy. A bachelor wouldn't even have this sofa in his house.
This sofa is kaput.
But one or two or three other things I did on this sofa (minds out of gutters, please) ? I read Ann's books - the whole "Mother of All" series, as I was pregnant, then as a new parent, then as the mother of a toddler.
And so when she put out the call for mothers to answer questions for an upcoming sleep book, I signed on mostly because I love the challenge of answering questions. I'd read so much, and dealt with so many frustrations because of my own sleep problems . I wanted to help, to share, to contribute. I remembered how the rotten nights preyed on my days.
Then, she asked me to read her (then) new sleep book as she was writing it, from a parent's perspective, and to comment on it. So, my comments were in it, both behind the scenes and within the text, because sleep? It is an issue around this house. I could tell you about parenting and sleep. Or, just ask my sofa.
So, from behind the scenes, I got to see what Ann puts into her books. She agonizes, she worries, she cares. She gets giddy and excited like a little girl when she finds some fascinating research. And if her books are good, especially those in the "Solutions" series, it's because she's read every other book out there, looked at hundreds of websites, and read the responses of hundreds of women to her well-chosen questions; and then she tempers and shapes it all. It came to be that the books had to be edited down to fit the publisher's specifications - it is after all, an overview to all the possible solutions, not a guarantee. But, as it is, it helps. It would have helped me. And it hurt Ann to lose even one bit of it. Each book is like a baby to her. She is just not a heartless dissemination machine. Far from it.
When it came time for me to help witht the Mealtime Solutions book too, I didn't have any pithy remarks that made it to print.
Because why?
Sleep was hard for our family. Food was easy. I remember at one point Ann worrying because another reviewer, who wasn't a parent, thought the quotes from some of the moms were so "dark". DARN TOOTIN'. The funny and the depth and the pathos from the quotes of the moms interviewed, including me, came from the myriad issues around sleep - the dealing our families' reactions, the being blindsided by the fatigue, the worry, and the...oh my god, here I am on the damn sofa right now and look at Gene Anthony Ray's legs in those short shorts (and I am not going to try to find a link) in the Fame (the tv show) re-run that is on right now...sorry.
So um, I looked at this sofa today.
And I can think about it, or another one, because my parents have heard the saga of our sofa enough times, and they know and disdain our sofa, and today they told me to start shopping. I think I have another thing to thank Grandma Josephine for, as much as them.
And I am thinking that red corduroy is looking pretty cheery and good right now, because the bad sleep period is pretty much behind us and a fun sofa would be a great symbol for moving on. Perhaps our old sofa, who served us well, but may be harbouring some bad voodoo after all this time, needs to go. It's dark, and scratchy and mean now - like the sleep deprivation years. Now we need comfort and life and fun for a toddler. I am not a new mom any more - and just as sleep issues pass in and out of our lives, so do sofas.
I actually really really do think about the new moms, in the trenches, as I am now cresting on a great period of a toddler who sleeps pretty well. My quote to the effect (too lazy to get off the sofa to walk over to my desk to get the book) that made the pages, was, that when I was told about the sleep deprivation that comes with new parenthood, I understood it the way I'd understand a brain surgeon telling me about operating - or like a bird telling me about flying. You don't know the length and breadth and depth of it until you're in it yourself - and now that I'm way past it...ohhhhhh yesssssss.
If I could go back and add one more thing to the book, it would be this:
That we didn't take any pictures of the awake and hard-up-against-the-crazy, and the sleepless and screaming times.
We captured images of Josie sleeping because there is nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child.
Nothing.
STOP IT.
Don't even try.
Perhaps we don't always aspire to have our children sleep only for our health or theirs - maybe, we do it in part because it's gazing at peace.
I won't forget the hard times, though I'd like to. I will look back and love the beautiful sleeps we did have. You don't know how utterly sublime the good ones were, and are, until the worst is over. She looks like this right now, upstairs in her wee bed. If you look at the timestamp? It's time for me to get off the daaaahvenport, go kiss her, and then go to my own bed to dream about a new sofa.
Thanks so much for reading. I always enjoy receiving emails at hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com. But it's okay if you don't want to write too.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Thanks for the Perspective, Powers That Be!
So, if last week had been a normal week for me, there would have been a post about how giving Boo Boo a special can of Turkey and Cheese disgustingness for his Thanksgiving din dins led to some discussion as to whether he can even pretend to be grateful.
This week? I'm just glad it didn't give him runny poo. So (rueful laugh), instead of worrying about his gratitude, I'm the grateful one. Whaddya know.
And if last week had been a normal week for me, I would have boasted and bragged about how my friend who works at a very very schmancy place brought these adorable heart-shaped pumpkin flans for our Thanksgiving desserts (because she is the type of person who WOULD have wee little heart shaped flan pans at home, and that is a VERY GOOD kind of person to know), thoughtfully making enough so that Josie and I could have extras for breakfast the next day.
This week? I am just grateful for that friend, who, in offering condolences gave me the most beautiful image to envision in my grief, and also shared our happiness in celebrating Steve's birthday yesterday.
I have noticed lately that some people feed off the sadness in others; some only like the happy. To be able to be a friend through both, sometimes in the same week, is a rare gift.
Last week, if all had been normal, I'd have tried to find something to say about my sweet potato pie.
This week? I think maybe eating most of it myself, as a pumpkin-flan-for-breakfast-chaser, wasn't such a good idea. Because my pants' buttons sure aren't thanking me for that. So now I not only have no pie, I have nothing nice to say about it.
Last week, I might have tried to describe what shopping for various things that were needed, despite feeling like a walking wound was like. Such as the bizarre horror of buying a new wagon for Josie (hers was stolen off our front porch) in our funeral garb; trying not to forget Steve's birthday despite wanting to crawl into bed with the computer for a couple of weeks of catching up, reading, writing and recuperating...you know some "whine whine whine poor me but aren't I still clever..."
This week, I'm just going to tell you: The people at Type just MADE the day for us. After dragging Josie through a hideously crowded chain store trying to find the perfect Mag light for Steve's gig bag, and thinking that "Hey! Why shouldn't I be able to find a book for him here too!" and then wrangling her though a West-end mall full of nothing beautiful, it was, and shouldn't have been, amazing that we stopped into a fantastic little bookstore on the way home, and within seconds found the very book I wanted to buy (um...him) - and based on the silly, perfectly sarcastic remark from the person at the desk which led to a fun conversation, also found this book:
(which is being a barn for the guys right now as I type this and we play a bit while I compose my thoughts)
So what I'm going to say today, is that when I mourn for my grandmother, for my family's past, it is probably, actually, a life I would like to have that I mourn for.
One of the guests at the wake commented on how many people there were present. I responded, sadly, that there were fewer and fewer at each of the wakes and funerals, probably due to the attrition rate of the elderly, the illnesses and infirmities of the aged friends and relations - and the displacement and estrangement of the younger family members. While it's a great tribute to have so many dear people present at a funeral, it's also the fact that they were present throughout the life they honour that shows the effect one has on others. It's not that there will be fewer who will mourn for me - it's that I will not have encouraged the types of relationships that breed such closeness and such grief at my departure.
By yesterday I'd regained a bit of what went missing last week: the joy of small but fine things. The brief connection in a place that made me happy, like a small bookstore where the staff actually talks to you. Something like meeting up with our friends at the Backstabbers matinee yesterday afternoon. Friends who love us.
But it wasn't until this morning, see Josie on the stool I brought home from my parents' home that I kind of put it together.
This stool?
As kids, my cousins and I used to fight over who'd get to sit on it (not just verbally - often with fisticuffs). It was our perch for bowls of beef "baby" soup, crusty Calabrese bread heels stuffed with butter, and ziti in my Grandma's awesome spaghetti sauce. Now, nobody but me wants the stool. And, of course now, Josie - the stories of my childhood that I've been telling her, while she sits on it as I peel her apples or butter her bread have turned it into a prize for her too.
It's the connections, the words, the stories, and the making and building and doing that make things special and permanent and personal and lovely - on a smaller level than anyone realizes. It's not about connecting to every other person - it's about connecting to the ones that it will make a difference to and not knowing you have until you've done it. Or not knowing, but hoping. Or never knowing, but doing so in just being the person that you are, without any aspirations or ulterior motives.
It's the songs that tell our stories in a universal way, but touch our hearts like they were written just for our own selves. It's our history in our family's mouths that makes our lives matter in what may seem like a small, but in what is really the largest, way.
It's taking notice of the human in front of you and reaching out, that makes the difference in a day, a week, a life.
And this leads to the fact that so many wonderful, lovely people have been taking time out of their lives to actually write to me - not just in my sadness, but as a part of an ordinary day, that is partly what's keeping me writing. I liked your comments - but I love your letters. I might have received so many "I'm sorries" in a comments section -- but in this past week? I have never been so touched by even the briefest of correspondences.
I'll make a big bookstore/small booksellers analogy here:
There is nothing like walking into a place and finding someone who not just notices that you are there - but that you are you.
One could assume that all who are in any bookstore love books, but it's not true. Some are in there just to buy gifts, to kill time, to get out of the rain, to buy coffee in the built-in coffee shop, to be around people without actually connecting with them - or to buy books to read, but not to discuss or share on the spot, or in more depth than passing remarks. The clerks there don't necessarily love the books or the people buying them. This most often happens at the larger chains, of course - it's still a rather pleasurable experience to shop there - it's just not often transformative.
In a typical "You've Got Mail" comparison, I'll say the difference is that in a small bookstore, someone might look at what you've got in your hands, look you in the eyes, and start a conversation, be it the store owner, staff, or another customer, with a smaller chance or percentage of most of those other things happening. (Coffee shops in bookstores - feh! Everyone knows you should only soil your own books in the privacy of your own home!)
So, this past week, reading such caring emails? Talking with some wonderful friends? These conversations, short or long, have been transformative for me. My thanks. You see, one thing about my grandmother - as agreed upon by all who knew her - she never had an ulterior motive in her life. Although she never needed one, what a purity to aspire to for anyone! So while closing comments has been fantastic, it has been so mostly because while I will admit that I had a few suspicions as to what would happen, the best one that I'd harboured has been proven. That some would not just remember that I'm there, but that I'm me. And that has been a part of my healing this week.
It's also why, though I'd continue blogging even if nobody read and nobody cared - that I can't say enough how those who've seen their way past the easy "comment" button have done something that is FINE and good and important, maybe not knowing exactly how much good that it does.
It's being the person in the bookstore who found the best present I could have given Steve because they TRIED, and cared; and as a result of that, a present for our whole family. It's passing me a clean pressed hankie instead of a cheap shreddy Kleenexes when I'm teary. It's reminding me that the person I want to be reaches out, even if it is scary. Its giving me the gift of your valuable time and energy, knowing I might not have the same to give back.
It's reminding me that the life my Grandmother lived - and I am not romanticizing this, because I was there and I heard the stories - was in today's world, rare and beautiful because the people in her life were people - not just faces in a crowd, or words in the air.
And so, because I will always admit to any hypocrisies, I will say -- I do really love it that some just read and absorb and enjoy my posts. I'm still very very happy with that. HONESTLY (Last week or this week or whatever week!). But, this week? For those who've prairie-dogged it in the emails and in my life -- thank you so much. You've been good for me in a way you might not have imagined.
You remind me that when I die, someone might make some casseroles or a lasagnas, bring them to my daughter, and tell her stories about me. There is no greater comfort for me this week.
It makes me want to continue, keeping blogging and, furthermore, my life, small, meaningful, artful and caring - knowing that the effects of each can be everything from a small moment of pleasure to an inspiration for someone else. But, mainly, for my daughter.
While at this point, I could cue "I Hope You Dance", think of her and leave in tears, I'd rather this:
I hope that she can grow up to be the kind of person who makes meaningful differences. Yes, grand sweeping gestures and inspiring movements inciting others to perform too are wonderful in a way; but sometimes, one kind word makes more of a world of difference. Sure, women can go out and effect ethereal changes in the lives of others, but it, to my mind, in no way compares to reaching out and touching a person, rather than the air around that person.
I hope that I remember, and that she does as well, the value of being fine.
I hope that everyone who needs to hear it from me understand and know that I was greatly moved by the quality of some of the people in my life this week.
Now, cue "That's What Friends Are For" (the Shirley Bassey version please), and I'll snuffle into your shoulder as we hug and sway.
This week? I'm just glad it didn't give him runny poo. So (rueful laugh), instead of worrying about his gratitude, I'm the grateful one. Whaddya know.
And if last week had been a normal week for me, I would have boasted and bragged about how my friend who works at a very very schmancy place brought these adorable heart-shaped pumpkin flans for our Thanksgiving desserts (because she is the type of person who WOULD have wee little heart shaped flan pans at home, and that is a VERY GOOD kind of person to know), thoughtfully making enough so that Josie and I could have extras for breakfast the next day.
This week? I am just grateful for that friend, who, in offering condolences gave me the most beautiful image to envision in my grief, and also shared our happiness in celebrating Steve's birthday yesterday.
I have noticed lately that some people feed off the sadness in others; some only like the happy. To be able to be a friend through both, sometimes in the same week, is a rare gift.
Last week, if all had been normal, I'd have tried to find something to say about my sweet potato pie.
This week? I think maybe eating most of it myself, as a pumpkin-flan-for-breakfast-chaser, wasn't such a good idea. Because my pants' buttons sure aren't thanking me for that. So now I not only have no pie, I have nothing nice to say about it.
Last week, I might have tried to describe what shopping for various things that were needed, despite feeling like a walking wound was like. Such as the bizarre horror of buying a new wagon for Josie (hers was stolen off our front porch) in our funeral garb; trying not to forget Steve's birthday despite wanting to crawl into bed with the computer for a couple of weeks of catching up, reading, writing and recuperating...you know some "whine whine whine poor me but aren't I still clever..."
This week, I'm just going to tell you: The people at Type just MADE the day for us. After dragging Josie through a hideously crowded chain store trying to find the perfect Mag light for Steve's gig bag, and thinking that "Hey! Why shouldn't I be able to find a book for him here too!" and then wrangling her though a West-end mall full of nothing beautiful, it was, and shouldn't have been, amazing that we stopped into a fantastic little bookstore on the way home, and within seconds found the very book I wanted to buy (um...him) - and based on the silly, perfectly sarcastic remark from the person at the desk which led to a fun conversation, also found this book:
(which is being a barn for the guys right now as I type this and we play a bit while I compose my thoughts)
So what I'm going to say today, is that when I mourn for my grandmother, for my family's past, it is probably, actually, a life I would like to have that I mourn for.
One of the guests at the wake commented on how many people there were present. I responded, sadly, that there were fewer and fewer at each of the wakes and funerals, probably due to the attrition rate of the elderly, the illnesses and infirmities of the aged friends and relations - and the displacement and estrangement of the younger family members. While it's a great tribute to have so many dear people present at a funeral, it's also the fact that they were present throughout the life they honour that shows the effect one has on others. It's not that there will be fewer who will mourn for me - it's that I will not have encouraged the types of relationships that breed such closeness and such grief at my departure.
By yesterday I'd regained a bit of what went missing last week: the joy of small but fine things. The brief connection in a place that made me happy, like a small bookstore where the staff actually talks to you. Something like meeting up with our friends at the Backstabbers matinee yesterday afternoon. Friends who love us.
But it wasn't until this morning, see Josie on the stool I brought home from my parents' home that I kind of put it together.
This stool?
As kids, my cousins and I used to fight over who'd get to sit on it (not just verbally - often with fisticuffs). It was our perch for bowls of beef "baby" soup, crusty Calabrese bread heels stuffed with butter, and ziti in my Grandma's awesome spaghetti sauce. Now, nobody but me wants the stool. And, of course now, Josie - the stories of my childhood that I've been telling her, while she sits on it as I peel her apples or butter her bread have turned it into a prize for her too.
It's the connections, the words, the stories, and the making and building and doing that make things special and permanent and personal and lovely - on a smaller level than anyone realizes. It's not about connecting to every other person - it's about connecting to the ones that it will make a difference to and not knowing you have until you've done it. Or not knowing, but hoping. Or never knowing, but doing so in just being the person that you are, without any aspirations or ulterior motives.
It's the songs that tell our stories in a universal way, but touch our hearts like they were written just for our own selves. It's our history in our family's mouths that makes our lives matter in what may seem like a small, but in what is really the largest, way.
It's taking notice of the human in front of you and reaching out, that makes the difference in a day, a week, a life.
And this leads to the fact that so many wonderful, lovely people have been taking time out of their lives to actually write to me - not just in my sadness, but as a part of an ordinary day, that is partly what's keeping me writing. I liked your comments - but I love your letters. I might have received so many "I'm sorries" in a comments section -- but in this past week? I have never been so touched by even the briefest of correspondences.
I'll make a big bookstore/small booksellers analogy here:
There is nothing like walking into a place and finding someone who not just notices that you are there - but that you are you.
One could assume that all who are in any bookstore love books, but it's not true. Some are in there just to buy gifts, to kill time, to get out of the rain, to buy coffee in the built-in coffee shop, to be around people without actually connecting with them - or to buy books to read, but not to discuss or share on the spot, or in more depth than passing remarks. The clerks there don't necessarily love the books or the people buying them. This most often happens at the larger chains, of course - it's still a rather pleasurable experience to shop there - it's just not often transformative.
In a typical "You've Got Mail" comparison, I'll say the difference is that in a small bookstore, someone might look at what you've got in your hands, look you in the eyes, and start a conversation, be it the store owner, staff, or another customer, with a smaller chance or percentage of most of those other things happening. (Coffee shops in bookstores - feh! Everyone knows you should only soil your own books in the privacy of your own home!)
So, this past week, reading such caring emails? Talking with some wonderful friends? These conversations, short or long, have been transformative for me. My thanks. You see, one thing about my grandmother - as agreed upon by all who knew her - she never had an ulterior motive in her life. Although she never needed one, what a purity to aspire to for anyone! So while closing comments has been fantastic, it has been so mostly because while I will admit that I had a few suspicions as to what would happen, the best one that I'd harboured has been proven. That some would not just remember that I'm there, but that I'm me. And that has been a part of my healing this week.
It's also why, though I'd continue blogging even if nobody read and nobody cared - that I can't say enough how those who've seen their way past the easy "comment" button have done something that is FINE and good and important, maybe not knowing exactly how much good that it does.
It's being the person in the bookstore who found the best present I could have given Steve because they TRIED, and cared; and as a result of that, a present for our whole family. It's passing me a clean pressed hankie instead of a cheap shreddy Kleenexes when I'm teary. It's reminding me that the person I want to be reaches out, even if it is scary. Its giving me the gift of your valuable time and energy, knowing I might not have the same to give back.
It's reminding me that the life my Grandmother lived - and I am not romanticizing this, because I was there and I heard the stories - was in today's world, rare and beautiful because the people in her life were people - not just faces in a crowd, or words in the air.
And so, because I will always admit to any hypocrisies, I will say -- I do really love it that some just read and absorb and enjoy my posts. I'm still very very happy with that. HONESTLY (Last week or this week or whatever week!). But, this week? For those who've prairie-dogged it in the emails and in my life -- thank you so much. You've been good for me in a way you might not have imagined.
You remind me that when I die, someone might make some casseroles or a lasagnas, bring them to my daughter, and tell her stories about me. There is no greater comfort for me this week.
It makes me want to continue, keeping blogging and, furthermore, my life, small, meaningful, artful and caring - knowing that the effects of each can be everything from a small moment of pleasure to an inspiration for someone else. But, mainly, for my daughter.
While at this point, I could cue "I Hope You Dance", think of her and leave in tears, I'd rather this:
I hope that she can grow up to be the kind of person who makes meaningful differences. Yes, grand sweeping gestures and inspiring movements inciting others to perform too are wonderful in a way; but sometimes, one kind word makes more of a world of difference. Sure, women can go out and effect ethereal changes in the lives of others, but it, to my mind, in no way compares to reaching out and touching a person, rather than the air around that person.
I hope that I remember, and that she does as well, the value of being fine.
I hope that everyone who needs to hear it from me understand and know that I was greatly moved by the quality of some of the people in my life this week.
Now, cue "That's What Friends Are For" (the Shirley Bassey version please), and I'll snuffle into your shoulder as we hug and sway.
Friday, October 13, 2006
To add insult to injury...
Yes, we endured the snow storm in Buffalo on the way home from the funeral last night.
Plus there was some hail too.
Today at Kinderyoga, Josephine tripped over her own feet, and put her teeth though her upper lip and smashed her nose bloody while she was at it. What's next? A sharp stick in my eye? Cat poo somewhere I wasn't expecting it? Not taking a chance.
I declare this week to be officially over. That's it - I'm done with it. This weekend is going to be added onto next week, which had better be at least average, if not spectacular in some way. Hear that Powers That Be? This week - done. Finished. Buh-BYE. Next week will be better, and not just thanks to my friends bourbon and Pocky, and playing "Tear-Stained Eye" over and over, while crying a bit and luxuriating in feeling sorry for myself during a monky-hot bath - which somehow usually works, but not lately.
This week?
(Draws imaginary line across the throat in the universal slicing the head off motion that means CUT)
One year ago today...
We woke up without our dog.
If you see me, and I'm a bit of a wreck these days - you know, what with the recently deceased Grandma and all, and if you should happen to have a shot of bourbon, some Pocky, a spare cashmere sweater and a hug on you - give 'em over.
If you see me, and I'm a bit of a wreck these days - you know, what with the recently deceased Grandma and all, and if you should happen to have a shot of bourbon, some Pocky, a spare cashmere sweater and a hug on you - give 'em over.
The Long Goodbye
Thank you, all of you, who took the time to write and offer warm wishes of happiness for our anniversary, as well as sympathy, empathy, condolences and care upon the death of my grandmother. I've gone from summit to plummet this week, and feel a bit raw and sore.
But, since I'm not one to waste a bit of writing (this is the part where you say - "Holy shit - she's recycling her eulogy as blog fodder!", and I say "Yes, yes I am."), I'm going to tell you what I said, up there at the podium, in the huge, echoing church, amidst sobs, crying, blubbering, and a couple of sharp intakes of breath, complete with heaving breasts (all my own). You see, I knew I was sad. I cried and cried all week, at the silliest little things. I thought, at the wake, that all of the conversations with my relatives, many of whom could be extras and some possibly main characters on the Sopranos, were hilariously surreal and really pretty funny - so after that I could just get up there and speak, because that is one of the things I can be good at, and I had managed to be pretty bright and composed the night before. I thought I was fine.
What I did not expect, was to get up there, and read something I wrote, and look out during my own pauses for composure to find I'd encouraged everyone to cry if they weren't already, and cry harder if they were. I told my aunt's story of my grandma's life, with my own introduction and closure; but it wasn't until I heard it all through my own lips, following my own narrative arc and emphasis, and read in my own cadence, that I realized that one of the reasons that blogging is so easy is because you can't see the faces of those you are affecting. Writing the eulogy in longhand was luxurious - but painful in that I couldn't see it forward and backward, ahead and behind, as I can on the computer screen. It meant that it rather pulled me through itself, rather than me placing words and ideas then joining them together. And I found that I couldn't trust my speaking voice, not in the way that I can trust the one that flows from my head and heart and then through my fingers. I also couldn't walk away and leave it where I put it. It followed me in my family's faces the rest of the day.
So I am typing it out, to give copies to the family members that asked for it, and to feel it flow in the way that I am used to, and also to leave it somewhere and then walk away from it.
I am posting it, because my topic for the Motherlode Conference is about storytelling, and how having a blog of one's own can be a place to not only "breathe air that hasn't been breathed a thousand times before by one's family", but that it's a modern way to fulfill a mother's traditional role as the storyteller in the family. As it was, one of the results of speaking as I did, was to hear more family stories than ever before. I have no doubt that parts of the eulogy will make their way into my talk at the panel - but hopefully without the blubbering and snot.
For the record once the waterworks started - I did attempt the legendary "pretty cry". I had one of my dozens of vintage hankies, some of them formerly my Grandmother's, pressed and ready. I'd even provided a few to my mother and aunts, because the most bereaved shouldn't also have those shredded rolls of sodden Kleenex on their faces and sweaters (you know, the ones that resemble mini-joints?). I thought the tears would run down my cheeks, and just lay there, glistening. I didn't wear mascara. What was not expected was that the tears would be so copious and run so freely that they would pass my jaw line and meet underneath my chin, forming one steady drip on to the front of my four-button suit, much like a leaky faucet. I did also back away from the mike when I had to inhale my snot-filled nostrils, but was too slow for one wracking heave - which, over the speakers, caused the statues themselves to cover their ears and possibly a deacon to mutter "Christ, get a grip, lady".
Here is what I said:
"In her emotional exhaustion, caught between the passing of her mother and the welcoming of her granddaughter, my Aunt C. has asked me to read her story, of how she remembers her mother. My mother, and their other sister, each have their stories, of my grandmother, but this is just one.
My grandmother's three daughters, M.A., N. and C. each worked so very hard to keep her happy and comfortable in the body that anchored her here, and let her thoughts sail elsewhere. As my mother and aunts, and her very kind nurses often said, she was often present at some very lovely parties lately.
But this we can't really know, as Alzheimer's Disease proved itself to be the long, cruel goodbye it's said to be. it is, thankfully, harder on the loved ones than it is on its host.
What we've learned from stories like Aunt C's is that these remembered parts that make up a person never seem so valuable as when they're lost to time, and the fallibility of memory."
And then I told Aunt' Camille's story:
"I remember her stories. She recalled a happy childhood, growing up in Welland near the canal. Her mother, N., made home-made breads and pastas. Her dad, S., made the best wine, and had the cleanest wine cellar. The whole family, she and her sister M. and her brothers A. and M, were proud of their father's vegetable garden, which won first prize many years. Despite that richness, they were quite poor, and Mom was only fourteen years old when she went to work in a knitting mill, to help support her family.
She was fun-loving as a girl. She loved to play cards and baseball, and to go to dances.
Once, she went to a fortune teller, who told her she would "cross water, and live under a different flag".
When she was only twenty, as a bridesmaid at a friend's wedding, she met a city slicker from Buffalo named Sam. They courted, then married, and thus she found her fortune across the Niagara River, in Buffalo, under the American flag.
Grandpa L. didn't want Dad to marry Mom, because he thought she was "too thin, and probably sick". How wrong he was!
They had three daughters, each born at home. Work was scarce, as was money. But they always provided good food, fun, and a loving family.
Every Sunday, we traveled back over the bridge to visit our Canadian grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins for a delicious pasta dinner.
We drank Grandpa's wine, and so did he. There was always only a little in his glass - but the bottle was on the floor next to his chair!
As well, we picked wild strawberries and fresh peaches from Grandpa's tree. Grandma made the best dandelion salad.
When I was seven years old, Mom and Dad bought a new house across town, on Rounds Avenue. Dad worked on the railroad, and brought home everything from cats to turtles to white mice. And if you know Dad, you know he was a CHARACTER.
Thank goodness, Mom needed, and had, the patience of Job. She grew beautiful tulips, she canned tomatoes, and made the best spaghetti sauce in the world. She never drove, but taught me how to. With three daughters, she spent most of her time ironing yards and yards of full skirts for prom dresses, and eventually, for wedding gowns after years of sending boys away from the front porch.
The year R. and I married, we invited Mom and Dad to join us on a trip to Miami. Mom said "No" - she was afraid and had never flown. But Dad said "Yes" , and so we all went. As we approached the plain, Mom was shaking and her lip was quivering. But, as soon as we got on the plane, she sat down. looked around, and said, "This is really nice!". Thank God we had a great flight and a great time.
That led to many happy travels for Mom and Dad - to Florida, to Las Vegas, to California to visit Dad's brother J., and even to the Bahamas to visit with their cousins and very good friends, J & M L.
These things we'll remember; and as these and the other stories grow faint, our affection for her "baby" beef soup, memories of all of our Friday night fish fries, and all of our trips to Chef's will linger just as strongly - for these are the things that make up a life.
Today we celebrate her life. Mom was the healthiest person I knew - never sick, never hospitalized, never any surgeries... Her secret to longevity? Eat good food. Get plenty of rest. Don't worry. And, of course, never exercise.
Her time came to move on to bigger and better pastures. But we don't want you to be sad. She lived a beautiful and good life, and for that we are thankful."
One of the things I'll talk about at the Motherlode, is how blogging is a fantastic medium, because there are so many tangents, so much back story and so much to follow through on, that normal storytelling can't encompass it all.
From my Aunt's story, I could go on to tell you about how when she says "dandelion salad" she meant gardoons, which I beliver are really burdock, and how it was often gathered from the roadside on the way there. And how there were times in my life the car was pulled over because some was spotted growing near an underpass. How the house on Rounds Avenue was the first house I ever lived in - a duplex where each of their children lived upstairs when first married, to save up for their own homes. How that house is now three shades of purple, after its spending most of my life in dark green with white trim. About how we couldn't stay at our homes during the Blizzard of '77, so all six of us grandkids stayed there. About how many of my dreams take place there, though it's been about twenty years since they moved to a smaller apartment near the Boulevard Mall - where they'd drive less than a block to every day for lunch and for Papa to pester his favourite shopgirls.
My favourite tangent from that story? How my Papa, Sam, used to tell me that a white mouse with red eyes named "Pinky" that he'd brought home from the railroad had escaped, and still lived in the walls of the house. He'd tell me "Hey! I just saw him peeking out of the heating register!", and I crouch by the wall for hours hoping for a glimpse of him. Since I've just admitted to my childhood gullibility, can I add to your impression by also saying that at the time he was teasing me as such, that mouse would have been about twenty-seven years old?
And as I read what I'd transcribed from Aunt C., these thoughts of past years flooded through my brain, my eyes, and my heart; and on the spot, I Iooked at the people all of whom I couldn't bullshit one bit - because they were there then and now, and I was talking about them too - and my responsibility to remain true to the story blinded me when I went on to say my part:
"Grandma's silent strength was such that it took many of us all the years after Papa died to really find out who she was.
Imagine: .........................(a few moments of silence)
That was just a few seconds.
Imagine sixty-one years of those seconds with Papa. Then, imagine almost ten years of those seconds without him.
They do not make women like her any more.
In fact, when I am introduced in this family, the same for my cousins A, L, S, E and C - we are respectively, M.A.'s, C's. or N's child. It seems funny that with the loudness of Papa we should identify first as our mother's children, and our mother's first as Josephine's daughters.
That speaks to me of just how very strong, and good for our family she was."
And then, of course, I had to announce the invitation to lunch after the service and trip to the mausoleum, because we are Italian and there is no funeral complete without a big meal afterward. That seemed obscene, as I was still visibly upset, and "Fanny's", which is a place my husband, for years, thought was a strip club instead of a restaurant and banquet hall, came out "Fa-fa-fa-fa-Faneeeeees" with a wail.
And I continued, so as not to leave on that note, which offended my sense of drama greatly:
"While we're there, please, tell us your stories of her, before they're lost - so we can tell our children."
But that came out only in a strangled sob, so I prepared to exit, a blithering mess, instead of gracefully making my way to the seat in a stately manner.
I left the altar, touched the casket while I genuflected out of habit born long ago; and took my seat, listening to the sniffles and sobs all around me - and one person stage whispering "Fanny's on Sheridan?"
But, since I'm not one to waste a bit of writing (this is the part where you say - "Holy shit - she's recycling her eulogy as blog fodder!", and I say "Yes, yes I am."), I'm going to tell you what I said, up there at the podium, in the huge, echoing church, amidst sobs, crying, blubbering, and a couple of sharp intakes of breath, complete with heaving breasts (all my own). You see, I knew I was sad. I cried and cried all week, at the silliest little things. I thought, at the wake, that all of the conversations with my relatives, many of whom could be extras and some possibly main characters on the Sopranos, were hilariously surreal and really pretty funny - so after that I could just get up there and speak, because that is one of the things I can be good at, and I had managed to be pretty bright and composed the night before. I thought I was fine.
What I did not expect, was to get up there, and read something I wrote, and look out during my own pauses for composure to find I'd encouraged everyone to cry if they weren't already, and cry harder if they were. I told my aunt's story of my grandma's life, with my own introduction and closure; but it wasn't until I heard it all through my own lips, following my own narrative arc and emphasis, and read in my own cadence, that I realized that one of the reasons that blogging is so easy is because you can't see the faces of those you are affecting. Writing the eulogy in longhand was luxurious - but painful in that I couldn't see it forward and backward, ahead and behind, as I can on the computer screen. It meant that it rather pulled me through itself, rather than me placing words and ideas then joining them together. And I found that I couldn't trust my speaking voice, not in the way that I can trust the one that flows from my head and heart and then through my fingers. I also couldn't walk away and leave it where I put it. It followed me in my family's faces the rest of the day.
So I am typing it out, to give copies to the family members that asked for it, and to feel it flow in the way that I am used to, and also to leave it somewhere and then walk away from it.
I am posting it, because my topic for the Motherlode Conference is about storytelling, and how having a blog of one's own can be a place to not only "breathe air that hasn't been breathed a thousand times before by one's family", but that it's a modern way to fulfill a mother's traditional role as the storyteller in the family. As it was, one of the results of speaking as I did, was to hear more family stories than ever before. I have no doubt that parts of the eulogy will make their way into my talk at the panel - but hopefully without the blubbering and snot.
For the record once the waterworks started - I did attempt the legendary "pretty cry". I had one of my dozens of vintage hankies, some of them formerly my Grandmother's, pressed and ready. I'd even provided a few to my mother and aunts, because the most bereaved shouldn't also have those shredded rolls of sodden Kleenex on their faces and sweaters (you know, the ones that resemble mini-joints?). I thought the tears would run down my cheeks, and just lay there, glistening. I didn't wear mascara. What was not expected was that the tears would be so copious and run so freely that they would pass my jaw line and meet underneath my chin, forming one steady drip on to the front of my four-button suit, much like a leaky faucet. I did also back away from the mike when I had to inhale my snot-filled nostrils, but was too slow for one wracking heave - which, over the speakers, caused the statues themselves to cover their ears and possibly a deacon to mutter "Christ, get a grip, lady".
Here is what I said:
"In her emotional exhaustion, caught between the passing of her mother and the welcoming of her granddaughter, my Aunt C. has asked me to read her story, of how she remembers her mother. My mother, and their other sister, each have their stories, of my grandmother, but this is just one.
My grandmother's three daughters, M.A., N. and C. each worked so very hard to keep her happy and comfortable in the body that anchored her here, and let her thoughts sail elsewhere. As my mother and aunts, and her very kind nurses often said, she was often present at some very lovely parties lately.
But this we can't really know, as Alzheimer's Disease proved itself to be the long, cruel goodbye it's said to be. it is, thankfully, harder on the loved ones than it is on its host.
What we've learned from stories like Aunt C's is that these remembered parts that make up a person never seem so valuable as when they're lost to time, and the fallibility of memory."
And then I told Aunt' Camille's story:
"I remember her stories. She recalled a happy childhood, growing up in Welland near the canal. Her mother, N., made home-made breads and pastas. Her dad, S., made the best wine, and had the cleanest wine cellar. The whole family, she and her sister M. and her brothers A. and M, were proud of their father's vegetable garden, which won first prize many years. Despite that richness, they were quite poor, and Mom was only fourteen years old when she went to work in a knitting mill, to help support her family.
She was fun-loving as a girl. She loved to play cards and baseball, and to go to dances.
Once, she went to a fortune teller, who told her she would "cross water, and live under a different flag".
When she was only twenty, as a bridesmaid at a friend's wedding, she met a city slicker from Buffalo named Sam. They courted, then married, and thus she found her fortune across the Niagara River, in Buffalo, under the American flag.
Grandpa L. didn't want Dad to marry Mom, because he thought she was "too thin, and probably sick". How wrong he was!
They had three daughters, each born at home. Work was scarce, as was money. But they always provided good food, fun, and a loving family.
Every Sunday, we traveled back over the bridge to visit our Canadian grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins for a delicious pasta dinner.
We drank Grandpa's wine, and so did he. There was always only a little in his glass - but the bottle was on the floor next to his chair!
As well, we picked wild strawberries and fresh peaches from Grandpa's tree. Grandma made the best dandelion salad.
When I was seven years old, Mom and Dad bought a new house across town, on Rounds Avenue. Dad worked on the railroad, and brought home everything from cats to turtles to white mice. And if you know Dad, you know he was a CHARACTER.
Thank goodness, Mom needed, and had, the patience of Job. She grew beautiful tulips, she canned tomatoes, and made the best spaghetti sauce in the world. She never drove, but taught me how to. With three daughters, she spent most of her time ironing yards and yards of full skirts for prom dresses, and eventually, for wedding gowns after years of sending boys away from the front porch.
The year R. and I married, we invited Mom and Dad to join us on a trip to Miami. Mom said "No" - she was afraid and had never flown. But Dad said "Yes" , and so we all went. As we approached the plain, Mom was shaking and her lip was quivering. But, as soon as we got on the plane, she sat down. looked around, and said, "This is really nice!". Thank God we had a great flight and a great time.
That led to many happy travels for Mom and Dad - to Florida, to Las Vegas, to California to visit Dad's brother J., and even to the Bahamas to visit with their cousins and very good friends, J & M L.
These things we'll remember; and as these and the other stories grow faint, our affection for her "baby" beef soup, memories of all of our Friday night fish fries, and all of our trips to Chef's will linger just as strongly - for these are the things that make up a life.
Today we celebrate her life. Mom was the healthiest person I knew - never sick, never hospitalized, never any surgeries... Her secret to longevity? Eat good food. Get plenty of rest. Don't worry. And, of course, never exercise.
Her time came to move on to bigger and better pastures. But we don't want you to be sad. She lived a beautiful and good life, and for that we are thankful."
One of the things I'll talk about at the Motherlode, is how blogging is a fantastic medium, because there are so many tangents, so much back story and so much to follow through on, that normal storytelling can't encompass it all.
From my Aunt's story, I could go on to tell you about how when she says "dandelion salad" she meant gardoons, which I beliver are really burdock, and how it was often gathered from the roadside on the way there. And how there were times in my life the car was pulled over because some was spotted growing near an underpass. How the house on Rounds Avenue was the first house I ever lived in - a duplex where each of their children lived upstairs when first married, to save up for their own homes. How that house is now three shades of purple, after its spending most of my life in dark green with white trim. About how we couldn't stay at our homes during the Blizzard of '77, so all six of us grandkids stayed there. About how many of my dreams take place there, though it's been about twenty years since they moved to a smaller apartment near the Boulevard Mall - where they'd drive less than a block to every day for lunch and for Papa to pester his favourite shopgirls.
My favourite tangent from that story? How my Papa, Sam, used to tell me that a white mouse with red eyes named "Pinky" that he'd brought home from the railroad had escaped, and still lived in the walls of the house. He'd tell me "Hey! I just saw him peeking out of the heating register!", and I crouch by the wall for hours hoping for a glimpse of him. Since I've just admitted to my childhood gullibility, can I add to your impression by also saying that at the time he was teasing me as such, that mouse would have been about twenty-seven years old?
And as I read what I'd transcribed from Aunt C., these thoughts of past years flooded through my brain, my eyes, and my heart; and on the spot, I Iooked at the people all of whom I couldn't bullshit one bit - because they were there then and now, and I was talking about them too - and my responsibility to remain true to the story blinded me when I went on to say my part:
"Grandma's silent strength was such that it took many of us all the years after Papa died to really find out who she was.
Imagine: .........................(a few moments of silence)
That was just a few seconds.
Imagine sixty-one years of those seconds with Papa. Then, imagine almost ten years of those seconds without him.
They do not make women like her any more.
In fact, when I am introduced in this family, the same for my cousins A, L, S, E and C - we are respectively, M.A.'s, C's. or N's child. It seems funny that with the loudness of Papa we should identify first as our mother's children, and our mother's first as Josephine's daughters.
That speaks to me of just how very strong, and good for our family she was."
And then, of course, I had to announce the invitation to lunch after the service and trip to the mausoleum, because we are Italian and there is no funeral complete without a big meal afterward. That seemed obscene, as I was still visibly upset, and "Fanny's", which is a place my husband, for years, thought was a strip club instead of a restaurant and banquet hall, came out "Fa-fa-fa-fa-Faneeeeees" with a wail.
And I continued, so as not to leave on that note, which offended my sense of drama greatly:
"While we're there, please, tell us your stories of her, before they're lost - so we can tell our children."
But that came out only in a strangled sob, so I prepared to exit, a blithering mess, instead of gracefully making my way to the seat in a stately manner.
I left the altar, touched the casket while I genuflected out of habit born long ago; and took my seat, listening to the sniffles and sobs all around me - and one person stage whispering "Fanny's on Sheridan?"
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Sam and Jo were sweethearts.
Sam: Hello Josephine! It's been a long time.
Jo: It felt like forever. I've missed you so much.
Sam: Nah, it was just a drop in the bucket really. Welcome home, to forever.
Samuel Lucci Born January 4, 1914, Died November 7, 1996
married September 28, 1935 to
Josephine Lucci Born March 2, 1912, Died October 10, 2006
Jo: It felt like forever. I've missed you so much.
Sam: Nah, it was just a drop in the bucket really. Welcome home, to forever.
Samuel Lucci Born January 4, 1914, Died November 7, 1996
married September 28, 1935 to
Josephine Lucci Born March 2, 1912, Died October 10, 2006
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Now Every Morning There's a Cup of Coffee, and I Wear Your Ring.
Do you see it?
I didn't know it four years ago, but there she was:
The "age" in our marriage.
The "oy" in our joy.
The twinkle in my eyes.
The itch in her daddy's pants.
And now, the cream in our coffee runs on ahead, the dappled sunlight beaming on her. Kind of like the headlights from the '65 Ford pick-up truck that bathed us their scattered light during our vows on an October night, four years ago.
If you want, today, you can picture my heart in pieces. Chunks of it scattered around for me to find from time to time, as I look back and look forward. One remnant beats in the Texas night, under a gnarled old tree in front of the dancehall in Twin Sisters Texas, where we promised our marriage would be like a conversation that will always seem too short. Another part runs around in the grasp of a fuzzy headed little girl, who now always wants to pull her hand from mine and dash ahead. And another part always gives me the latte with the heart shape in the foam, and he takes the leaf for himself.
I didn't know it four years ago, but there she was:
The "age" in our marriage.
The "oy" in our joy.
The twinkle in my eyes.
The itch in her daddy's pants.
And now, the cream in our coffee runs on ahead, the dappled sunlight beaming on her. Kind of like the headlights from the '65 Ford pick-up truck that bathed us their scattered light during our vows on an October night, four years ago.
If you want, today, you can picture my heart in pieces. Chunks of it scattered around for me to find from time to time, as I look back and look forward. One remnant beats in the Texas night, under a gnarled old tree in front of the dancehall in Twin Sisters Texas, where we promised our marriage would be like a conversation that will always seem too short. Another part runs around in the grasp of a fuzzy headed little girl, who now always wants to pull her hand from mine and dash ahead. And another part always gives me the latte with the heart shape in the foam, and he takes the leaf for himself.
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